The Chosen Ones
by JellybeanChiChi
Summary: COMPLETE: The mysterious, violent death of a journalist leads Grissom and his team to investigate a jail house convict/minister. M for nasty language/violent situations. GSR implied. C/G and Brass/Grissom friendship. Chap. 23 and conclusion revised.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI. If I did, I would suggest to Billy to forego the rectangular glasses.

A/N: This is a case file story that contains mature material (not smut, just mature, including nasty language and sexual/violent situations). It is a multi-chapter fic (30+ chapters). There is a little GSR, but it is suggested throughout. Lots of Brass/Grissom and Catherine/Grissom friendships.

I have to give many, many thanks to my two betas. To "Dame" VRTrakowski who constantly told me to keep going and who admonished me for using the word "suck" when describing my writing. She's a good person and a good friend. Thanks.

To CSIGeekFan who graciously gave me an enthusiastic "Yes" when I asked her to beta. She is a writing machine (and a damn fine editor), and some of her stories give me goose bumps because they are so good. Thank you, my friend.

Both these women are amazing talents. I am humbled by their support and encouragement.

Thank you for visiting, and enjoy.

--

**Prologue**

The flick of the light switch and the hum of the incandescent lighting broke the silence of the showroom.

It did nothing, however, to quell the stench that permeated the room.

The odor was not lost on Clement Hoffman. He silently walked among his inventory, every so often placing a hand upon the polished mahogany or oak finishes of his pieces. It had been three days since he entered the showroom, and he wondered where the smell originated.

The smell of filth. The smell of waste. The smell of death.

Clement hoped the smell would be something innocent. A wayward rat that wandered from the dumpster outside when the back door was opened for a delivery. An armadillo just outside the facility whose burrow caved in.

Those hopes were dashed the minute he saw the coffin. Clement approached it.

"That's not one of ours," he said out loud to himself.

Upon inspecting the coffin, which was sturdy but unremarkable, much like those used for pauper burials, Clement not only could tell it was the source of the smell, but became anxious about the fact it was sealed shut.

His exit was much quicker than his entrance. He didn't bother with the light switch, and once again the room was silent, except for the hum of its lighting.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI.

A/N: This is a case file story that contains mature material (not smut, just mature, including nasty language and sexual/violent situations). It is a multi-chapter fic (30+ chapters). There is a little GSR, but it is suggested throughout. Lots of Brass/Grissom and Catherine/Grissom friendships.

**Chapter 1**

The several photos strewn on the light table of the evidence room of the Las Vegas Crime Lab dominated the attentions of both Catherine Willows and Gil Grissom. The images captured the lifeless bodies of three young women, looking worn, used and forgotten, with their throats slashed.

The first body had been found two weeks ago behind a dumpster of a Chinese take-out off the Strip. Authorities discovered a second body in Henderson seven days ago. And yesterday the third body was found in the woods behind a suburban park. None of the dump sites had any obvious connections. But this was Catherine's case, and she was sure all three women deaths were related. By all estimates, the women were prostitutes, but according to Dr. Robbins' estimates, their ages ran from 15 to 17.

It is difficult for some law enforcement officers to have sympathy for women who are used for sex (even if it is against their will, which is sometimes a fact forgotten), but Catherine thought of these women as victims. Young victims, at that. They deserved justice.

"Have you asked vice about them?" Grissom inquired.

"I haven't been able to find anyone in vice who has seen them," Catherine said. "Fingerprints haven't yielded any priors or identified any of these girls."

"Do you have any evidence they are related?" Grissom asked. "Markings, hotel paraphernalia, anything?"

"No. 3 has a tattoo on the back of her neck," Catherine said as she pointed to the photo of the third Jane Doe, whose hair was so short and face so young, she could have passed for a teenage boy. "It seems fresh. It looks like a cross on fire."

"Some pimps brand their girls with a tattoo or a marking or some type of distinction to let other pimps know who she belongs too," Grissom grabbed two photos that revealed Jane Doe No. 1 and No. 2. Each had hair that went past their shoulders. "Maybe you should shave the others' heads to see if the marking is there. They could have been branded a while ago. The tattoo might be hidden by the hair that has grown there."

Catherine lit up a bit. "That's a good idea. If they all have the same marking, there has to be a way to trace it to a pimp. If vice can't help, it might be worth asking other women on the street. They might know more."

"Do you need help on from anyone on this?"

"Do not offer yourself, Gil. This is the first conversation we've had in a week that didn't end with me being pissed with you. Let's not break the magic," she said sarcastically.

Grissom looked at her nonplussed. "I was going to offer Greg."

"Grissom, he's working on four different cases. I'm good for now. I'll let you know." After gathering the evidence on the table, Catherine quickly went to the morgue.

--

Grissom left the evidence room to make his way to the garage. While Catherine's major case involved the murdered women, he, Nick and Warrick were knee deep in a quadruple murder of four young men, two of which were the sons of a state representative. Pressure mounted the minute the bodies had been found three days ago. At first blush, it seemed to be a drug-related hit, which did not bode well for the representative.

From the other side, the suspect's father — the owner of a major food chain in southern and central Nevada — also instigated pressure through his influence. The D.A. was pushing for evidence to bring to the grand jury as soon as possible before the suspect's lawyer would throw too many roadblocks.

Nick, Warrick and Grissom had worked several shifts in a row already, and all three were showing their wear and tear in various ways. Processing the bodies took much time, as did the crime scene where they found the bodies. Despite hours spent at the scene, nothing probative could be found.

Interviews with friends of those murdered yielded little information. And leads from anonymous tips were a waste of time. While they had a suspect in mind, the lack of progress stymied and frustrated the criminologists.

But when the police said they found the suspect's car, they all found a renewed sense of purpose. It could be the break in the case for the trio. Grissom went to the scene where the car was found to process the area, and Nick and Warrick waited for the car to be sent to the garage, eager to take it apart.

Grissom returned to the lab and visited with Catherine before heading to the garage. As he arrived there, Nick was leaving. He had an evidence bag in his hand and took 15 minutes to talk to Grissom about the progress. While Grissom found a gun at the scene, he quickly deflated Nick's enthusiastic look by stating it was not the same caliber as used on the victims. But Grissom did get prints off of the gun and Bobby should still check ballistics.

Warrick and Nick did find some pieces of evidence in the car. Nick seemed certain that pieces of the puzzle were slowing falling into place.

"I'm telling you Grissom, I think this car is the key; we'll be able to get something probative, if we continue," Nick seemed optimistic, but his anxiety and frustration showed. Grissom was sure Warrick was on edge, as well. "I need to get this to DNA, but I really got to get a break, boss. Give me a half hour?"

"That's fine, Nick. I'm going back in. Keep your phone handy."

"Will do."

When Grissom entered Warrick was standing at the far corner with his back to the door. He screamed into his cellular. "Why the fuck do I even try with you, Tina! You want me out of your life? It's going to happen if you do this!"

Not realizing he was no longer alone, Warrick cursed loudly and threw his phone across the garage. Cursing again, at himself, Warrick seemed to be shaking as he paced. He found Grissom standing there.

"You need to calm down Warrick. Why don't you take a walk," Grissom said, grabbing a tool to help process the car.

"You know Griss, I don't think taking a walk is going to just make this go away," Warrick's voice was full of venom. He wanted to pick a fight.

"No, Warrick, but it will help," Grissom said in a controlled voice. "You need to take a walk."

Warrick shook his head and laughed. "Really? Is that what you do Griss? You know, I don't know how you do it. I'm fighting for this woman who couldn't give a shit about me, but you have this woman you say you love and you let her go, no questions asked. Fucking amazing. How do you do it?"

"Warrick, I don't think this is the time or place."

"Don't give me that shit!" All the stress, time on the job and personal garbage caused Warrick to lose it. "Maybe you need to answer that question."

"Warrick either process the car or go for a walk."

"Answer the question, Grissom!"

The moment got to Grissom as well.

"You want an answer? I don't have one! I don't have an answer, Warrick! I don't know how it came to that! DAMMIT!"

This time it was Grissom who flung something across the room.

"What do you want Warrick? You want me to give you some type of resolution or advice that you can take with you? Look for it somewhere else because I don't have anything to give. All I have is a glimmer of faith that maybe, just maybe, she might come back. Sometimes I possess that faith and sometimes it possesses me and suffocates me like a big God damn lie!"

Both men were silent. Their uncharacteristic outbursts hung in the air, and they simply stood in silence hoping their anger and anxiety would slip away. Grissom stood for a short time with his hands on his hips and head directed towards the floor, towards the wall, any place but in the direction of Warrick's gaze. Eventually, Grissom started to pace and held his head in his hands.

Warrick didn't seem to know what to do or say. So he went to pick up his cellular. But before he could attempt to speak, Grissom broke the silence.

"Go find Nick, Warrick. Take a break. I'll process. Come back when you're ready to work."

Warrick stood there. He could have been suspended or fired. He was ashamed of his behavior, but simply gave Grissom a nod and left.

Grissom stood alone yet felt exposed. Biting his lip, he opened his kit and worked.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI.

A/N: This is a case file story that contains mature material (not smut, just mature, including nasty language and sexual/violent situations). It is a multi-chapter fic (30+ chapters). There is a little GSR, but it is suggested throughout. Lots of Brass/Grissom and Catherine/Grissom friendships.

**Chapter 2**

Nick and Warrick came back to the garage some 30 minutes later. They found Grissom hunched in the backseat. Without so much as a hello, the other two men simply joined their supervisor in processing.

Ten minutes later, Grissom's cellular rang with Conrad Ecklie's number on the caller ID. "Grissom."

"Grissom, you're needed at a scene in Mesquite. I know you're working on the Jackson murders, but…"

"It's all right, Conrad. Nick and Warrick can handle it from here," Grissom said, thinking it might be best to get away. "What are the details?"

--

Grissom made notes and ended the call with Ecklie. "I need to go to Mesquite and process a scene there."

"Bugs?" Nick asked.

"Yeah," Grissom said, not wanting to offer more details, especially with Nick. "You guys can handle this from here. Let me know of any progress."

"We'll let you know. Good luck, Grissom," Nick said as Grissom left the garage.

Warrick stayed in the car as Nick watched Grissom leave. "Man, that must be one hell of a scene to get him out of here so quick. You'd think he wouldn't want to be around us," Nick said with a laugh.

"Yeah," Warrick replied. Nick saw something Warrick's reserve.

"You OK?" Nick asked.

Warrick took a deep breath. He'd screwed up, but if he mentioned a word of his conversation with Grissom, that would make the situation even worse. He'd hit Grissom with a cheap shot. He didn't want to do that again.

"Yeah. I talked to Tina earlier. It didn't go well," Warrick said.

"Oh," Nick replied. "Want to talk about it?"

"Nah, man. Let's just get back to work."

Nick nodded, and the two processed the car.

--

The drive to Mesquite offered Grissom time to clear his head and regain his focus. Because he was working through what would be the dayshift, he drove for 80 miles as the sun rose along the desert's horizon. The sun shined directly into the windshield as he drove northeast to his destination.

About 25 minutes in the drive, his cellular rang. He picked it up without looking at the ID.

"Grissom."

"Hey, it's me. Are you busy?"

"Sara. No, I'm on the road."

"To home or a scene?"

"A scene."

"Is anyone with you?"

"No, just me. How are you? It's been a while," Grissom added, recalling it had probably been a week since they last talked.

"I'm fine. I'm sorry I haven't called sooner. I did get your message. It was so short. Is everything OK?"

He never thought he'd hear Sara speak such a ridiculous question. Five months was a long time. Of course everything was not OK.

Grissom's silence answered Sara's question. "I'm sorry. That was a stupid question. It's just the past couple of times we spoken on the phone I feel like I talk to you but you aren't talking to me. You don't even talk about cases anymore."

"They are just cases, Sara. Some of them I don't want to rehash over the phone."

"OK, OK," Sara said. She was pulling teeth at this point, but she didn't want to hang up. "We can talk about something else, then."

_What? _Grissom thought.

Again, Sara could almost read Grissom's thoughts. "Just tell me what's on your mind."

"OK," Grissom said genially. "How are you? Where are you now? Where have you been? Do you have enough money? Are you ever coming home?"

The last question caught in Grissom's throat. "I know. I shouldn't have asked that."

Sara sighed. "It's what's on your mind. I asked, didn't I?"

"Yes."

Silence, at times, is overrated.

"I need to get off the road and make a pit stop."

"Wait, don't hang up," Sara urged.

"I'm not. I wasn't. Don't worry."

"I'm in San Francisco now. I've been doing some traveling, and I need to get away for a short while. I won't be able to call…"

"How long is a short while?"

"I'm not sure."

He squinted his eyes. "Please, Sara, just give me something. A timeline, something. I'm getting… I just think…" He gritted his teeth. These phone conversations left him exhausted. He was sick of talking with her without her face-to-face.

"I'll be back in San Francisco probably by the 2nd. If I'm not, I will get a message out to you — by e-mail or Fed-Ex or however. But I will get the message to you. OK?"

"Yes. I need to go, Sara."

"I know."

"That's it?" Grissom asked.

"I love you," Sara replied.

"I love you."

"I'll talk to you as soon as I can."

"OK, Sara."

And they hung up.

Grissom stopped the car at a gas station. He needed to gas up, walk around and get some water.

And he needed to focus. But all he could think about was she never answered the question.

She never said whether she was coming home.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI. 

**Chapter 3**

After finishing his conversation with Sara and a short pit stop, Grissom drove in silence and reached Hoffman Funeral Home an hour later. A young officer stood at the entrance. A local detective and the home's owner, Clement Hoffman greeted him.

"Dr. Grissom? Detective Raymond Mathers, Mesquite Police Department. Thank you for coming out here to help out. This is Clement Hoffman, owner of the establishment. He was the one who found the body."

"Where is it?"

"Back there in the showroom," Clement said.

The detective and Hoffman led Grissom to the showroom. Mathers explained that Hoffman had called the police immediately when he found the coffin. Mathers and an officer had opened the coffin and found a grisly discovery — the bound and gagged body of a man covered in what seemed to be maggots and worms. Because the CSIs with the local department were holed up with several other cases, and because of the insect infestation, Mathers had contacted his friend, Conrad Ecklie, about getting an entomologist.

"Who's had access to the body today?" Grissom asked.

"Just me, Clement, and the coroner, who is pronouncing the body now. The body's been virtually undisturbed since it's been found."

The showroom was a separate facility that adjoined the main funeral home via a covered walkway. When the trio entered, they met by an officer at the door and the coroner inside.

"Dr. Hanson," Mathers said to the coroner. "This is Dr. Grissom from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. He's going to process Mr. Doe, here."

Hanson looked up, and gave a nod to Grissom. "Jonah Hanson. Good to meet you, Dr. Grissom. Well, we are still dealing with a John Doe. No identification on him, and take a look at his hands."

Grissom put on his glasses and a pair of gloves. "Looks like someone took a cheese grater to them." He took a closer look at the hands clasped on top of the body's chest. Duct tape bound the man's hands. "They obliterated any chance to get fingerprints, even with ridge builder."

Hansen pulled up the man's sleeve to reveal a tattoo. "Marine tattoo — 2nd Marine Division. Could help with identifying the guy. Maybe that with dental records, but I'm not sure. Somebody might have taken a baseball bat to his head."

Grissom nodded as he took photos of the arm and other parts of the man's body. What struck Grissom the most wasn't the tattoo, it was the man's eyes — wide open, black and frozen in pain. Grissom took more photos of the man's arm, and noticed a needle mark at the crux of the elbow.

"You notice that, Doctor?" Grissom asked Hanson.

"I do now. I'll do a full tox on him at the morgue," Hanson said, lifting the man's arm a bit for a better look.

"Well, he could have been a junkie or someone shot him up," Mathers said.

"We'll be able to tell if he died from an overdose, but my first thought for COD is suffocation. Just ran out of air in here," Hanson said as Grissom snapped photo after photo. "TOD is going to be a bit more tricky. It's possible the coffin could have been anywhere before it got here."

Grissom took a look at the top of the lid, which rested on the wall. "Wood seems faded."

"I thought so too, which made me think the coffin was left in the sun. Who knows how long. He'll have to be cut open before we get time of death."

As Hanson took the tape off the man's mouth, Grissom retrieved the tape gingerly. Hanson's speculation that dental records might not be possible seemed like a viable theory as many of the man's teeth were shattered. But Grissom took notice of the glue side of the tape from the mouth.

"Well, we might be able to identify someone," he said, showing the tape to Hanson and Mathers. "That looks like good thumb prints."

"Could be from the person who applied the tape," Mathers said.

"Well, I need to leave you all to your mysteries. Mason and Doug will be here soon to collect the body," Hanson said. "Ray, I have to get to the Jacobs' scene. Need me anymore here?"

"No, Jonah, I will get back with you, though."

Mathers watched Grissom. "You think your bugs can help with a timeline?"

Grissom shook his head. "Did you notice these bugs are dead?"

"Yeah, like I said, that coffin was sealed tight," Mathers said. Both men went to the lid and Mathers explained the caution, time and strength it took to extract the lid. "Air tight. The bugs probably suffocated with the body."

Grissom looked from the lid to the coffin, and picked up a maggot with his tweezers. They had matured and were fat, as if they feasted before they died. He then investigated the outside of the coffin searched for cracks or crevices. He found none.

"If that coffin was air tight, how did the bugs and worms get in to begin with?" Grissom asked.

A perplexed look spread over Mathers's face.

Grissom looked around the coffin some more, and found, what seemed to be, specks of red blood along several parts of the edge of the coffin. Grissom swabbed it, and a quick test confirmed his findings.

"That could have been from the victim's hands. I think the tips were shredded inside the coffin," Mathers said.

"Yes," Grissom agreed. "But none of these specks seem to be spatter." He took another test from his kit and tested another swab. "This isn't human blood."

"From what?"

"My guess? Bovine. Perhaps from ground beef. I think whoever put John Doe in this box littered it first with rotting meat infested with maggots. The maggots would had eaten off the rest of the beef and then crawled on the victim."

"And the worms?" Mathers asked. "They added those too? But why?"

"I don't know," Grissom said.

"What a way to die," Mathers said. "Whoever did this, didn't just want to kill this guy. He wanted to torture him."

Mathers stood at the foot of the coffin, and something seemed to catch his eye.

"Dr. Grissom. Looks like something's poking out of the shoe. Is that paper?"

Grissom extracted the shoe and found what Mathers saw — a piece of paper. On it was written a verse: "Therefore thus saith the Lord GOD; Because ye have spoken vanity, and seen lies, therefore, behold, I am against you, saith the Lord GOD."

"Ezekiel," Mathers said.

"Yeah, maybe not just torture, but revenge in the name of God."

**TBC **


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI. 

**Chapter 4**

While in Mesquite, Grissom heard from Nick about the quadruple murder. The gun Grissom found at the scene was not connected to the four murders, but ballistics proved it had been used in the murder of a drug dealer a couple of weeks ago. And fingerprints connected the suspect the crime lab believed committed the Jackson murders.

"It gives us the time we need for this case," Nick said. "He was arraigned immediately for that murder and it looks like we'll be able get him for these four."

"Great. Now you two need to get out of there," Grissom said. "Your next shift will be in 13 hours. Use that time to rest."

"Griss, we can get this thing done," Nick pleaded.

"Fresh eyes, Nick. If we have time, then you need to go home and come back rested," Grissom said. "The evidence will be there on your next shift."

--

With the quadruple murder under control, Grissom could afford a meticulous collection at his scene.

"Mr. Hoffman, how did you know this was not one of your coffins?" Grissom asked the director.

"We get our coffins exclusively from Weatherly Designs in St. George, Utah," Hoffman said approaching Grissom at the coffin. "This design obviously is different from the others. The craftsmanship is sturdy, but not ornamental. To be sure, Weatherly's always puts it seal on the inside head of the coffin, under the lining. Here, I'll show you."

Hoffman guided Grissom to another coffin, pulled it open and gently lifted the lining to reveal the Weatherly logo.

"Mr. Hoffman, do all designers leave a mark on their coffins?" Grissom asked.

"Not always. This seems to be a coffin destined for a pauper's grave, and many times a designer forgoes the seal on something like this."

"Do you know any way to track a coffin like this?"

"Well, Prosser and Sons has a contract with the state to provide many coffins. But they're not local. I think they're in Indian Springs. We don't do too many indigent burials …"

"Would funeral directors generally take those burials to a particular cemetery?"

"Yes, generally. Mesquite City Cemetery doesn't have too many spaces for pauper graves, so it might go to Overton at either St. Joseph or St. Thomas," Hoffman said. "You know, the county generally only pays about 250 for those types of burials. And they don't just show up like this. The coroner fills in the paperwork and the delivery is made from his office."

"Well, Mr. Hoffman, I'm sure none of your clients arrive in this fashion," Grissom said.

"You're right about that," Hoffman said. "Mr. Grissom, I really need to get back to my office."

Detective Mathers, who took notes as Grissom and Hoffman talked, answered the director's inquiry.

"Clem, I need to get contact information for all your employees. I'll walk with you to your office, if that's OK with you, Dr. Grissom."

"Yes, if there's anything else, we'll get back to you, Mr. Hoffman."

--

Because the Mesquite office did not have the space available to accommodate another person doing analysis, Grissom arranged to take the evidence to his lab in Vegas. Mathers had no problem with that, and said he would do leg work on his end to get what they need, including sending over video tape surveillance of the funeral home for the past several weeks.

"I'll be questioning employees," Mathers said. "Clement said his two nephews and their buddy went on a fishing trip for a couple of days. Has no idea where they are. But I'll find them. When I do I'll let you know."

"We need to check with cemeteries about whether they have received any requests from Mesquite for indigent burials," Grissom added.

"I can do that from my end as well," Mathers said.

Grissom offered his thanks and went to leave.

"Safe drive, Dr. Grissom."

--

Grissom hadn't realized how long he was in the funeral home until he stepped outside and midday sun offered him a harsh greeting. The blazing sun combined with the three hours hunched over a coffin and tense three days prior drained him at that moment. He steadied himself, put on his sunglasses, and ventured to his SUV for the drive.

Once in the car, with air conditioning blasting, his mind flashed with all the information he'd absorbed for the past 24 hours. The inventory left him dizzy, so he turned on the radio, put his car in drive and tried to gain ground on I-15 without thinking about anything.

But the mind can play tricks. He didn't just think about the tortured body riddled with bugs. He replayed the scene where the car was found, the car where four young men breathed their last breaths before being murdered. He replayed looking at the photos of those teens, girls used and abused and butchered before their 18th, 17th or even 16th birthdays. He replayed the brutal conversation with Warrick where both he and Warrick simply lost control. Then he replayed the even more brutal conversation with Sara, who might never come home.

The loud and extended blare from a semi broke Grissom from his thinking. He had wandered in the trucker's lane and was face-to-face with huge headlights. With no time to spare, Grissom swerved out of the trucker's lane and into the breakdown lane. Although he avoided a head-on collision, the gravel in the breakdown lane made coming to a complete stop laborious.

When Grissom finally stopped the car on the side of the road, he was sweating and out of breath. He quickly opened his door and walked to the other side of the SUV and emptied his stomach. A couple of dry heaves later, he leaned against the passenger door. A man in his 50s shouldn't seem so lost, Grissom thought. He needed some control or he'd never be able to focus.

Suddenly things became clear. He would log in the evidence at work and then begin a routine like a mantra.

Shower. Sleep. Eat. Work. Repeat.

**TBC**

A/N Next update to include two chapters


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CS

A/N Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy the next two chapters. And to those of you who take the time to review: muchas gracias. Very humbling. Thanks again to my two betas, VRTrakowski and CSIGeekFan.

**Chapter 5**

The shrill of a cell phone was a familiar way for Grissom to awake. Yet he grunted every time the sound shattered what little slumber he achieved.

"Grissom."

"Gil, it's Jim. There is a positive hit on those thumb prints you found on that coffin tape — Seamus Flemming, Las Vegas resident."

"You have an address?"

"Yup. Care to join me for an evening drive?" Brass asked in his droll voice.

"Meet you at the lab in 20 minutes."

Grissom shut his phone and sat on the edge of his bed. With a deep breath, he recalled his mantra: Shower. Sleep. Eat. Work. Repeat.

Time to grab a bite and get to work.

--

"Seamus Flemming? Las Vegas Police Department! Open up!" yelled Brass outside of Seamus Flemming's townhouse. When he received no answer, he nodded to his fellow officer to barge through the door.

The only person not brandishing a gun as they entered Flemming's home was Grissom. He waited to enter, making sure he got an all clear. Although sparse, with few pieces of furniture, the one-bedroom duplex still looked ransacked.

Brass put his gun back in his holster and approached Grissom. "All clear. Looks like he left in a hurry," Brass said.

Grissom gravitated to a pile of debris — bills, paperwork, coins and keys — on the floor near the only table in the room.

"I guess he didn't need the loose change for tolls," Brass said, causing Grissom to chuckle.

Grissom picked up a broken picture frame.

"Jim, I don't think Seamus Flemming is a suspect. I think Seamus Flemming might have been the victim," Grissom handed Brass the photo. "Look there at the man in the center." The photo showed four service men flanking a man who seemed to be a civilian. The civilian in the center was showing off a tattoo on his upper right arm. The service men were cheering and offering thumbs up. But even more telling in Flemming's identification were his eyes, which Grissom could still envision in his mind as the man in the coffin.

"It looks like our John Doe in the coffin, who had a military tattoo — 2nd Marine Division. Didn't you say Flemming was a freelance journalist?"

"Yeah," Brass said. "But no military experience."

"Maybe he was an embedded journalist with a Marine squadron."

"That would explain his prints in the system," Brass said. "I don't think that explains the tattoo."

"Well, if he is the victim, he must have put his hands up to his mouth to try and prevent his attackers from putting duct tape over his mouth. And he could have worked his thumbs under the tape," Grissom surmised. "I'm going to see if I can find a toothbrush or hairbrush to try and compare DNA with John Doe."

As Grissom emerged from the bathroom with samples, Brass was getting ready to head outside. "I'm going to chat with some neighbors and see if they knew Mr. Flemming."

--

Seamus Flemming seemed to live as a minimalist. From what Grissom saw in the bathroom, the cup, hairbrush and toothbrush he took for DNA left the room fairly empty. He found a razor, some soap and a washcloth in the shower, and deodorant and toothpaste in the medicine chest, along with bottles of ibuprofen, acetaminophen and generic daily vitamins. There were only three towels in the linen closet.

The kitchen housed the usual devices — refrigerator, stove, oven and a small microwave, all of which looked to be standard issue with the rental. The only other appliances were a "Mr. Coffee" coffeemaker circa early 1990s, and a fax machine with a corded phone.

The living/dining area consisted of a folding table with four folding chairs, a well-worn leather couch, a bookcase and a television with its antennae extended. Each piece of furniture was overturned and the couch cushions were ripped to shreds.

When upright, the bookcase probably took up a good portion of wall space. Travel books, maps, atlases, dictionaries, writing guides, style books and an old edition of World Book encyclopedias littered the floor, along with typical paperback favorites such as "Jurassic Park," "Hunt for Red October" and a couple of James Bond novels, and an eclectic mix of biographies, from Mark Twain to Janis Joplin, and Pol Pot to Harry S Truman.

There were a few framed photos here and there. The man Grissom presumed to be Seamus Flemming was shown standing with various people at various locations — some in homes and schools, some with stunning outdoor vistas, and some just close-ups of Flemming with one or two people.

Before Grissom could examine the bedroom, Brass reentered the home. "Gil, you need to see this. Bring your kit."

Grissom followed Brass to the other side of the duplex. "Call me Goldilocks, but the door was unlocked."

"Did you find two broken chairs and one just right?" Grissom quipped.

"No," Jim said, as he opened the front door. "But I did find blood."

Blood and bits of what seemed to be brain matter riddled the wall inside the residence. A large pool of blood stained the tiled floor.

"Looks like somebody _really _doesn't like porridge," Brass said. "Remind me again; was your John Doe shot?"

"No," Grissom said, examining the blood splatter and taking samples. "I don't suppose you found a body?"

"Went through the place, and there is no body alive or dead here … except for us, of course. Should I put you in the alive or dead column?" joked Brass, who earned a solemn look from his friend. "A George Cody, age 48, lives here. He owns both sides of the duplex. Mr. Flemming was his tenant. Ironically, no one has heard or seen anything about either man for the past several days. Neighbors didn't say much about Flemming, but apparently Cody is a gambler, which gets him in trouble from time to time, but looks like he has been on an upswing."

"Well, then we have two crime scenes that may or may not be related," Grissom said.

"I don't know, Gil, it would be a hell of a coincidence if they weren't. Maybe Cody was at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"So whoever did this got rid of one body 80 miles north where it was bound to be found and let another body disappear without a trace?" Grissom wondered. "Besides, we don't even know if Cody is really dead."

"I'm counting on your DNA magic to answer that question. But if you excuse me, I'm going to do some of my gumshoe magic," Brass said, waving his hands in front of Grissom, just to garner a little chuckle. Which he did. "You OK?"

"Yeah, I'm going to call Greg for backup."

"Yeah, OK. But is everything else OK?"

"Fine. … Thanks. … How are you, Jim?"

"Never better."

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI. 

**Chapter 6**

"Where do you need me?" Greg asked as he found Grissom hunched over debris in the Flemming house.

"Hi, Greg, thanks for coming," Grissom offered, trying to keep the mood light. It had been a while since he and Greg worked a scene alone. "I've got two scenes. I believe this the home of the victim in the Mesquite case, and next door involves suspicious circumstances surrounding a missing landlord."

"Have you processed anything next door?"

"No. Just in here. … You want to take it?"

"Yeah."

Greg was surprised to see Grissom following him next door.

"Problem?" Greg asked.

"No," Grissom said. "I was going to catch you up on what we know."

"OK."

Grissom offered Greg the details Brass had told him, and added some of his own observations. "Notice anything missing in here?"

"You mean other then a woman's touch?" Greg joked. "Well, what's not missing are some high-end electronic devices — plasma, DVR, DVD, I-Pod, laptop, even his cell is on the counter. If this was a robbery, the perps missed some easy pick ups."

"True. But look over here," Grissom said, pointing to the middle of the room in front of the plasma. "Don't you think there should be something here — a couch or a recliner — so that Cody could watch his new plasma?"

"Well, if Cody was attacked here, and whoever killed him wanted to get rid of the body, maybe they stuffed the body in the couch and got him out like that? Probably from the sliding glass door," Greg added, as he pointed at the doors behind Grissom and him.

"It's possible," Grissom agreed. "I don't see any drag marks, so they probably lifted the couch out."

Grissom hunched on the ground. "When people lift something heavy, sometimes they might place a palm on the floor to steady themselves."

Greg nodded. "I'll pay special attention to the tile floor and the sliding glass."

"Great. I'm going back next door. Good luck here," Grissom said as he left.

--

Grissom was making slow progress in Flemming's house. When he entered the bedroom, he found the mattress torn up much like the couch cushions. Drawers from a five-drawer dresser were toppled on the floor, which left piles of t-shirts, shorts, socks and underwear everywhere. There was not much in the small closet, yet the linens and some clothes on hangers were strewn on the floor, along with a small lamp and clock radio that probably stood on the nearby nightstand.

With nothing of value in the room, Grissom thought whoever broke into the house either found what they were looking for or found nothing at all.

As he flashed his light along the walls, Grissom almost missed a door with padlocks and a chain near the dresser. After moving a green backpack from in front of the door, he walked through and stood outside on a small, rectangular concrete slab covered by an awning overhead. There stood a 10-speed bicycle with a pair of riding gloves in a Ziploc bag hanging on the handlebars.

Grissom let his flashlight make a beam across the small backyard, which covered both sides of the duplex. He saw a dozen cement blocks stacked against the 6-foot fence in the back yard. They were arranged like steps, and Grissom easily climbed them and kept his balance. On the other side was an empty field and access to a main thoroughfare. When Grissom looked down from his perch to the bottom of the other side of the fence, he saw another stack of cement blocks.

If Flemming wanted to leave his house without someone knowing about it, he could climb the steps, toss the bike over the fence and hoist himself from the bricks.

At least, that's what Grissom theorized.

--

A couple of hours after he started processing, Greg came back into the Flemming residence. "You were right about the floor," Greg said matter-of-factly. "I found two sets of palm prints on the floor on each side of where the couch would have been. I got a lot of prints from the sliding glass, so no telling if any are fresh."

"That's good, Greg."

"I'm ready to go back to the lab unless you need help here. What are you looking at?"

"Credit card slips, bills, bank statements. Greg, I think the only phone this guy had is that fax machine. There should be a way to get a list of the most recent outgoing and incoming calls."

Greg pushed a few buttons and easily got a printout of the last 20 incoming calls and another list of the last 20 outgoing calls. "It doesn't look like he used his phone much. Some of the older calls are dated from two months ago."

Grissom asked, "Are there any listings for 732-4989?"

"Nothing on the incoming list, but the last call on the outgoing list is 702-732-4989 and it was called two days ago," Greg approached Grissom with the printouts. "Where did you find that number?"

Grissom showed Greg a bank statement from First National Bank. Scrawled on the bottom left hand corner of the statement were the words, "Call. SDB-4989."  
"Friend? Coworker?" Greg said.

Grissom thought for a second before answering. "Maybe that's what the intruders thought, too."

Greg took out his phone and dialed. "Nick, it's Greg. You by a computer? I need to do a reverse phone number look-up. Tell me when you're ready. … 702-732-4989 … Really? OK, thanks."

Greg closed his phone. "Grissom, that number is listed as the Nevada Poison Control."

"If that's the case, I don't think that's what this scribble means," Grissom said.

Greg opened his phone again. "Well, if it is, at this time of night I should get a message." He dialed 702-732-4989 and waited. When he heard a prompt, Greg extended the phone so that Grissom could hear the Poison Control message. Grissom gave an inquisitive look.

"Do me a favor, Greg, and print the machine."

As Greg did so without a word, Grissom continued to look at the paperwork. "This guy seemed to live a simple life. Little money spent, enough money coming in. He only had one credit card, and the balance was paid off every month. There doesn't seem to be any extravagant purchases. I don't even see any restaurant purchases on his credit cards."

"Simple guy," Greg said. "I guess he didn't need much."

"Makes you wonder why he was targeted."

"Random. Luck of the draw."

"Maybe. But for a freelance journalist there were a lot of things I didn't find — notebooks, clippings of articles, interview notes, a recorder, tapes from interviews or a computer of any kind."

"OK," Greg said as he completed the printing. "The fax is done. Are you going to the lab?"

"Yeah, I'm going to finish up. When I get to the lab, I'll update the detective in Mesquite and probably get out there in a few hours."

"Hmm. Have fun. Later," Greg said as he left with his kit.

Grissom got up and called to Greg who was out the door and going to his car. "Good work, Greg, and thanks."

Greg didn't bother to turn around. "Yeah, whatever," he said, almost under his breath.

--

When he got to the lab, Grissom checked with Warrick and Nick on the progress of their case, which was coming together smoothly. They both secured enough evidence for an arrest in the case, making the sheriff very happy. "Great job, you two," Grissom told them.

"There's going to be a press conference in an hour," Nick said.

"You were a part of this, too, Grissom," Warrick added.

"You two will do fine. Enjoy it," Grissom said with a smile. "I want to get some stuff on this case before the next shift."

He took his leave to an empty layout room, where he took time to inventory all the evidence collected at Hoffman's Funeral Home and the two halves of the duplex. There were several items he wanted Jackie to take care of, but especially the note from the coffin, the fax from the Flemming residence and a slew of partials lifted from the floor of Cody's part of the duplex. DNA testing of the blood from Cody's place and a comparison of hair found at the Flemming residence to that of John Doe should be done before shift was over.

Grissom and Detective Mathers shared their information, and Grissom was due in Mesquite to pick up video tape surveillance and learn the autopsy results from Dr. Hanson. On his way out of the lab, he asked Brass for a favor. "I need you to call First National Bank on 80th. See if there is a safe deposit box registered to Seamus Flemming."

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI

**Chapter 7**

"Our John Doe perished from asphyxiation," said Mesquite's coroner, Dr. Hanson.

"He has a name now," Grissom said. "I got the results on the way up here. Fingerprints and DNA confirmed he is Seamus Flemming."

"How did you figure that out?" Hanson asked, a bit impressed.

"It all started with the tape," Grissom said, with a smile.

"Well, Mr. Flemming did not go gently into the night," Hanson said. "The tox report states he had crystal meth in his system. That must have been hell to be under the influence of that drug and being in that casket with bugs crawling all over him. He must have freaked out. He had a dislocated left shoulder; I'm guessing from struggling in the coffin. He must have tried hard to get out of the tape over his hands. Look at that bruising."

Grissom took a glance. "I don't remember him wearing a ring or watch." Flemming's left hand had a tan line around his wrist and his right ring finger had an indention where a ring had been worn.

"The deceased had no wallet, identification, jewelry or anything … oh, except for this," Hanson reached to a nearby table and extracted a sealed evidence bag containing a rock. "Know what that is?"

The shiny rock sparkled in the fluorescent light. "My bet — iron pyrite."

"My guess too — fool's gold. Why the hell would a fella have fool's gold in his pocket?"

"Just another piece of the puzzle," Grissom said.

When Grissom exited the autopsy room, Detective Mathers greeted him. "Dr. Grissom. We have time for breakfast and coffee before we get to Hoffman's. Interested?"

"Sure."

Mathers and Grissom talked about the case during the drive to the diner, throughout breakfast and on the way to Hoffman's Funeral Home. Mathers' most promising collection came from the video tape surveillance. While Hoffman only had cameras at the front of the home, which Mathers said yielded nothing unusual, he was able to extract surveillance from two businesses on the opposite side of the alley from Hoffman's back entrance to the showroom. One surveillance was only for the past five days, but the other business had digital tapes from the past three weeks.

"It's grainy and dark, but I know we don't have the equipment you have," Mathers said. "I expect it's best you take those with you back to Vegas."

"Did you notice anything unusual?" Grissom asked.

"It's really hard to tell, but I think there is something unusual about the garbage collection from time to time."

Mathers offered some more explanation to Grissom before putting his truck in park and exiting the cab to enter Hoffman's Funeral Home.

"Hoffman's nephews, Jake and Terry, help run the business with Clem. They've been on a fishing trip for the past three days, along with a handyman on site, Lyle Mackenzie," Mathers said. "Mackenzie got out of Corlin Correctional seven weeks ago."

"That's the medium security prison?" Grissom asked.

"Yup, he was up on violation of parole and possession of a controlled substance. Only did 10 months. Terry went to high school with Mackenzie, felt bad for him and convinced Clem to give him a job," Mathers said before he spat a portion of his chewing tobacco. "I know it seems like a stretch to go from possession to torture and murder …"

"Sometimes it is. Sometimes it isn't," Grissom opined.

"Ain't that the truth. I say we have the three of them come down to the station and talk to Mackenzie first and let the other two wait separately."

"Sounds fine," Grissom said, as a patrol car parked in front of the building.

--

Although perplexed, Terry and Jake Hoffman agreed to come to the station without protest. Lyle Mackenzie was a different story. Grissom noticed his jittery mannerisms and jumpy demeanor immediately. But that could be from his experience in prison. Convicts never attach pleasant memories with police stations.

Sitting in an interrogation room and listening to Mathers talk about finding Flemming's body made Mackenzie even more nervous.

"So, Lyle, what do you know about the body in the coffin?" Mathers asked, propping his left foot on the chair by Mackenzie.

"How the hell am I supposed to know anything about it? All them coffins look alike. You can't barely tell if there's a different coffin in there. I don't even go back there much," Lyle said. "You're not going to trick me into saying anything stupid."

"Just having a friendly conversation," Mathers said.

"How did you know the coffin was different from the others?" Grissom calmly interjected.

"What?" Mackenzie asked, flustered.

"You said all the coffins look alike and you could barely tell if a different coffin was among the rest."

"Yeah. So? I mean, that's how you knew the coffin shouldn't be there, cause it was different."

"We never said that," Grissom said.

Mackenzie was backpedaling. "Look, you said you found a dead guy in the coffin. How else are you supposed to figure something weird if the coffin wasn't different?"

"What do you mean by different?" Mathers asked.

"You know! Different! Some of those coffins, they're like thousands of dollars. Made of oak. Shiny and new," Mackenzie said. "That guy was probably in a real plain coffin, a pine box."

"Like the country music song," Mathers said with a smile.

"Yeah," Mackenzie perked up. "In a pine box on the way to Georgia."

"How did you know it was a pine box?" Grissom asked, deflating the revelry.

Mackenzie backpedaled but not fast enough. Now he was at a dead stop, sweating bullets and twitching like mad.

"Look, Lyle, I don't think you killed that guy in the box," Mathers said, the statement causing Mackenzie to shoot up his neck and offer a scared look. "But you know something about it. Just tell us what you know."

"I didn't kill no one. I got a call. …," the young man hesitated to say anything else. Then it appeared he was mumbling to himself. Grissom strained to listen and read the young man's lips.

From what Grissom could tell, it sounded like a prayer: "Strength to do your will. You are the one. You are my fire."

"You know what," Mackenzie finally said. "I need lawyer. … Yeah, get me a lawyer. You can't talk to me now. I want a lawyer."

"We'll get a public defender here for you."

"When?" Mackenzie asked.

"Soon as we can. You just wait here."

With that Mathers and Grissom took their exit leaving Mackenzie with an officer.

"I'll get a subpoena for his phone records," Mathers said.

"You know, if his role was to get rid of the body, maybe he knows someone at a cemetery," Grissom speculated.

"We haven't finished with the research of pauper graves from Hoffman's Funeral Home. That will be a priority for today," Mathers said. "I think it might be best to see if any area cemeteries employ former inmates of Corlin Correctional."

Grissom checked his watch. He wanted to get to First National Bank before noon.

"I know you got to get back to Vegas this morning. Let me get you those tapes and get you on your way," Mathers said.

--

Brass called Grissom while he was in Mesquite to say Flemming did have a safe deposit box at First National Bank.

"Box 4989?" Grissom said before Brass could offer that information.

"You know, I'm going to borrow Doc Robbins' words: No one likes when you do that," Brass said.

**TBC**

A/N: The reviews have been very kind. Thank your for them.


	9. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CS

**Chapter 8**

Grissom met Brass at the police station and they drove together to the bank.

"You know, that whole business of Flemming having a Marine tattoo really bugged me, so I called a Marine buddy of mine who got some information about Flemming's time in Iraq. You know that guy stayed for two 16-week embedded tours in Iraq with the 2nd Marine Division, out of Camp Lejeune, N.C., in the Al Anbar Province in Western Iraq."

"That province is part of the Sunni Triangle. Cities of Falluja and Ramadi. Those are active places."

"Serious activity. The 2nd Marine Division is the backbone of the 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force," Brass added, impressed. "Apparently Flemming was out with the tank battalion and was involved in an ambush. Rough stuff. Flemming ended up saving the lives of four Marines."

Now Grissom was impressed.

"He'd already been with the crew for weeks and months before that when he was previously embedded. He was well-liked. After he saved those Marines' lives, the group asked their CO if Flemming could become an honorary member and get the tattoo," Brass said.

"Brave guy," Grissom said. He could sense his friend's admiration for Flemming.

"You hear a lot of crap about media guys, and here's one who survived hell and saved four guys, and we find him dead in a box with nothing but a bunch of bugs," Brass said.

"Maybe whatever's in the safe deposit box will give us a better idea of what happened to Flemming," Grissom said.

"Yeah, let's hope so."

Grissom didn't know what to expect in SDB 4989, but when it opened, his intrigue about who Seamus Flemming was grew.

"A will, some personal papers, an I-Pod and a cell phone," Brass said. "Looks like he wanted to be cremated."

After putting on his gloves, Grissom examined the cellular's phone lists. "Flemming didn't make many calls from his home phone. Looks like this was his primary use for communication." Grissom then took a look at some of the personal papers. "This states Flemming has no living relatives and if anything happens to him, authorities should notify a Maggie Dominguez, 5712 Bonita Lane in Las Vegas."

--

Brass got a call about a case on the way out of the bank, so Grissom dropped him off at the station before he logged the cell phone and I-Pod into evidence at the lab. Then Grissom went to 5712 Bonita Lane.

When he knocked on the door of the residence of Maggie and Javier Dominguez, a very pregnant woman answered the door.

"Maggie Dominguez?"

"Yes," she said. "And you are?"

Grissom offered his identification and spoke in a calm voice. "My name is Gil Grissom with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Did you know Seamus Flemming?"

"Yes. But only his mother called him Seamus," Maggie said, looking as she was steadying herself for the worst. "Has something happened to Jimmy?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry to say his body was found," Grissom said grimly.

Maggie lowered her head and fought for her composure. She was obviously more than nine months pregnant, and Grissom put a hand on her arm to assure she would not stumble or fall.

"I'm sorry. Thank you, I'm OK," she said as Grissom removed his hand.

"I was hoping to ask you some questions about Mr. Flemming to help with our investigation, if you that would be all right?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry, I've already forgotten your name."

Grissom again showed his identification. "Gil Grissom of the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"Come in, Mr. Grissom," Maggie opened the door to her home, which revealed a toddler bounding at her feet. "Watch your step. It's a little difficult to pick things up off the floor."

Grissom gingerly walked through the home dodging Mega Blocks and Matchbox cars as if they were land mines. Maggie led Grissom to a well lived-in living room littered with a spattering of toys and several small piles of neatly folded clothes.

Maggie offered Grissom a seat at a chair. She sat down on her sofa with her son following suit. "I apologize for the clutter. Would you like anything to drink?"

Courtesies at moments like these always baffled Grissom. He believed it must be an impulse reaction during a time of grief.

"I'm fine, thank you," Grissom said.

"You had questions about Jimmy?"

"Yes, how did you know Mr. Flemming?"

"We're good friends," Maggie said but she quickly corrected herself. Jimmy was dead. "We were good friends. I've known him five years. We worked at 'The Daily Ledger' back home. We're journalists."

"You worked together?"

"Many times. We met overseas in El Salvador. I was covering the deaths of missionaries who served in rural, indigent areas, and he was freelancing on the criminal activities — kidnapping, robbery, murder — by former guerillas from the civil conflicts. I recruited him to the 'Daily Ledger.' He was an amazing journalist."

Maggie smiled at his memory.

"You said that was back home?"

"Yes. Raleigh, N.C. I came here about a year and a half ago with my husband."

"When was the last time you talked to Mr. Flemming?"

"Four days ago. He said he was going to be out of town for a few days, and not to worry. I've been calling him for the past two days on his cell. I keep getting voice mail," Maggie paused and wrung her hands. "I'm sorry Mr. Grissom, but please, could you tell me what happened to Jimmy?"

Grissom took a deep breath and then looked at the little boy sitting next to his mother. Maggie caught Grissom's gaze. She instinctively picked up her son and stood him on the floor. She kissed him on top on his head and said, in a very low and gentle tone, "Come on Oscar, let's get you in the play room with some trains." Maggie excused herself and took the toddler in the adjacent room. She got him satisfied and intrigued in a video and his trains, and returned to the living room and Grissom.

"Please, Mr. Grissom, I'd like to know exactly what happened to Jimmy. I'll answer whatever questions you have. I just… I just want to know."

Grissom respected Maggie's request and told her all he could, without jeopardizing the case. Maggie reacted with steel eyes and intellect, taking in every detail. When he finished, she stood and asked again if Grissom wanted a drink. When he said no, she got herself a glass of water.

"Jimmy didn't deserve to die like that. Nobody does, but … Jimmy didn't deserve that," Maggie said. "What can I tell you to help?"

"When did Mr. Flemming come to Vegas?" Grissom asked.

"About a month after he returned from his second tour in Iraq. He was embedded with a Marine squadron for about 16 weeks. We corresponded whenever possible, and he seemed upbeat. When he got back, he was ready to get back to work at the paper, but after about a month, he wanted to get away, take some time off."

"Is that when he came here?"

"Yes, that was about three months ago. He joked about needing to return to the desert," Maggie said, lightly laughing. "He stayed with us almost two weeks, and I thought he was going back east, but then Jimmy said he wanted to get a place of his own in Vegas."

"Did that surprise you?"

"I never thought he'd stay here long-term. Jimmy was a free spirit, well-traveled. Usually after a big assignment he traveled and sold stories to travel publications. It was his way to decompress. But I felt like something was holding him here."

"Do you think he met someone or do you think it was about a particular story?"

"I don't think it was a person. I'm sure Jimmy would have said something or I would have noticed something," Maggie said, trying to stand from the couch. "And usually Jimmy would tell me about a story, and he told me about his stories for travel journals and e-magazines. But I knew there was something else he was working on."

"We have looked through Mr. Flemming's duplex and I didn't find any interview notes, computer disks, clippings, research or a computer."

"Jimmy worked exclusively on his laptop, but he saved everything on external hard drives and he had back-ups of everything. He never trusted the laptop hard drives, and I can't tell you how many laptops were destroyed or lost in his care," Maggie said. "He did do some work here at the house. He told me his A/C was out, so I thought it would be more comfortable for him to work here. I'll take you to the extra room where he worked."

After a quick peek at Oscar, Maggie led Grissom to a back room where there was a comfortable work table, bookcase of children's books, a twin bed and two large filing cabinets. "The beige one holds my clips and research. Jimmy used the black one."

"Do you work locally as a journalist?" Grissom asked.

"No, I'm a grant writer for a social service agency. I freelance from time to time, but lately, I've been busy."

Grissom opened the black file cabinet that only had a few clippings in the bottom drawer, and some files, two CDs and a thumb drive in the top drawer.

"That is the stuff Jimmy sent me before he went back to Iraq," Maggie said, causing Grissom to give an inquisitive look. "Whenever Jimmy went on an extended trip, he would send me notes and research on stories he was leaving behind. Just in case."

"Do you know what this story was about?"

"I've looked it over. Jimmy talked about it a little while he was still in Raleigh. He was doing research on a scam targeting migrant farmworkers. From what I've looked at in his notes, he felt there was an Anglo at the top of the chain using underlings to scam workers of their daily and weekly pay. He was getting close and then he got the opportunity to be embedded again. It was a hard choice for him, but he felt he needed to go back with the Marines."

"Didn't he ask for the research back when he got back to Raleigh?" Grissom asked.

"By the time he came back, many of the workers were making their way up the stream." Again, Grissom gave Maggie an inquisitive look. "The workers move from state to state depending on what to pick — that's what they call moving up and down the stream. I'm guessing the targets of the scam left town or the scammers left."

Grissom took his attention away from the file cabinet.

"How often did Mr. Flemming work here?"

"Oh, every other day, except for last few days."

"Did he by chance ride a bike here?"

Maggie laughed. "Yes, a beat-up 10-speed, and he always carried that heavy, green backpack. He lives about five miles away. He'd park the bike behind the carport and then come in the house. He had a key to get in if no one was here."

Grissom was beginning to understand. Flemming didn't want people to know he was here. But if Flemming was at the Dominguez's residence that often, there should be more notes, more research. He searched baskets, the bookcase and drawers, but found nothing. Maybe Flemming was hiding the research from his friend.

"Mrs. Dominguez, did Mr. Flemming know you peeked at his notes from North Carolina?"

Maggie blushed a bit. "Journalistic curiosity. Jimmy would tease me about it. He said I could probably decipher his notes better than he could."

Grissom smiled then took a look at Mrs. Dominguez, who was standing next to the bed. "Excuse me," Grissom said, and he laid down on the floor and looked under the bed. He then glanced up at Mrs. Dominguez, and gave her a smile. Out from under the bed, Grissom extracted a plastic tote packed with notes, two external drives, thumb drives, a digital recorder, dozens of CDs, and a couple of camera memory cards.

"That sneaky son-of-a-bitch," Maggie said, fighting a tear and a chuckle. "He knew I haven't been able to bend down like that in two months."

"I think that was his point," Grissom offered. "Mrs. Dominguez, with your permission, I would like to take these notes back to the lab. It will likely be very helpful in our investigation."

"Of course," Maggie said. "But I would really like to get it back when the investigation is complete. Jimmy's life was his work. It was his passion, and if there is a story there that needs to be completed, I want to be able to do that for him."

"We will do that, Mrs. Dominguez," Grissom said.

**TBC**

A/N: The reviews have been very kind. Thank your for them.


	10. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI. 

**Chapter 9**

Before leaving the Dominguez home, Maggie inquired about Flemming's personal effects and where her friend's body was located. She wanted to view the body and get it ready for cremation, as Flemming wished.

"We didn't find any personal effects," Grissom said. "Except a rock in his pocket."

Maggie grinned and shook her head. "You mean his fool's gold?"

"Yes," Grissom said, surprised she knew what he was talking about. "Can I ask why he had it?"

"He's been carrying that around in his pocket since he graduated high school," Maggie said. "He told me he was waiting for a train with a bunch of business travelers and he watched some businessman buy some trinkets and papers from a street kid using a piece of fool's gold. He said he went up the guy and told him off, but the guy shrugged and said, 'Reckon the kid's gotta learn not to be so damn foolish," and the man got on the train and left. Jimmy was supposed to get on the train for a job interview, but instead he looked for the kid so he could straighten things out. It took him a couple of hours, but he found the kid, paid for the businessman's purchases, then some, and the kid gave him the fool's gold. Jimmy said he kept the rock with him to remind him that not all that glitters is gold."

"He must have lived by that philosophy," Grissom said.

"Yeah, and I have a feeling he died by that philosophy," Maggie added. "But that's the only thing you found on him?"

"Yes, no wallet. It also looked like he had a tan line for a watch and ring," Grissom said.

"He just wore a standard Timex, and he never took off his Claddagh ring," Maggie said. "Where is his body now?"

"He was found in Mesquite. He is at the coroner's office there."

"Mesquite? I don't even know if Jimmy's car could make it that far," Maggie said. "It was on its last legs from pulling the trailer cross-country when Jimmy decided to move here."

Grissom noted that comment. There was no car found at Flemming's home. Upon leaving the Dominguez's home, Grissom relayed that information to Brass.

"Flemming had a 1994 gray Grand Am. There's an APB out for it," Brass said.

When Grissom returned home, he took Hank for a good walk. After giving Hank food and water, Grissom sat down to review some of the evidence gathered from the Dominguez home. CDs contained written notes, photos and audio content.

There was also a DVD from KTNV Channel 13 dated 10 weeks ago. The title on the cover read, "Redemption behind bars — The story of Garrison Thompson. Reporter: Tony Fiffer. Producer: Dana Mendez. Camera: Josh Link." Grissom put it in his DVD player. After the ubiquitous "4, 3, 2, 1," the frame concentrated on a tall, thin man with red hair who wore prison attire. Moving furiously across a stage, with a wireless mic, the man said in a bold voice, "The spirit of Lord has set me on fire. I am a vessel. A vessel to be filled with love. A hunger to be satisfied with freedom. A spirit freed by the message from the Lord!"

As the video continued to show the man and members of his audience, the audio cut to an unseen narrator. "This is Garrison Thompson. Inmate No. 459809, and a man on a mission. A self-described religious minister, Thompson's pulpit is not in a church. It is in prison, where he has been housed for five weeks, and will continue to be his home for at least three years. But instead of crossing the days off on his cell wall, Thompson said he concentrates on a different cross. A cross of redemption. A cross on fire."

The video then switched to what looked like a personal interview in which the narrator, now in view, listens to the prisoner, Thompson. "I feel like I am on fire. I find strength to do his will. And it is so powerful, I feel like, 'Yes, I am the one to fulfill the promise.'"

The video went on for about seven minutes. A prison pastor, Malcolm Banscomb, gave a testimonial on Thompson's behalf, along with two youths ministered by Banscomb and Thompson.

At the conclusion of the report, the reporter offered a short narrative — "Garrison Thompson believes his mission is a divine one. And despite living a life in a 6 foot by 9 foot cell at Corlin Correctional Facility, he has seen a new world open up to him."

Then, a quote from Thompson ended the piece: "My new life began the second those cuffs were put on my wrists. I see the design in front of me. I have to realize it is up to me. I am the one."

Grissom turned off the DVD. Corlin Correctional. The mention of crosses. The mention of fire. There had to be a connection, and Grissom was sure Flemming was aware of it and had chronicled it somewhere in his research.

When he checked his watch, it read 2:42 p.m. If he showered and got a couple of hours of sleep, he could go by the TV station and ask a few questions before he needed to get back to the lab for his shift.

But he had to try and get some sleep. Even Gil Grissom needed fresh eyes.

**TBC**

A/N: The reviews have been very kind. Thank your for them.


	11. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI. 

**Chapter 10**

Getting rest and staring at the ceiling were two different things. That is what Grissom decided as he laid in bed trying to sleep. After 45 minutes without success, he rose from bed and went for a drink of water. Upon seeing Hank he thought about going for another walk, but opted for going in the back yard for a game of catch.

Perhaps the mindless recreation would clear Grissom's head.

Hank was ready to quit before Grissom. "What's up, boy? Need a break?" Grissom asked he sole companion. Looking into his eyes, Grissom could almost wonder what the dog was thinking. _Jeez, man, the sun's hot out here. Let's go inside. Get some sleep._

Grissom laughed at the thought. He realized the dog was probably more centered than his master.

When Grissom opened the sliding glass door, Hank walked to the water bowl. Grissom followed him to the kitchen and just watched his dog. When Hank was finished, the pooch went to his bed in the corner, let out a sigh and laid down. He was asleep in no time.

It was just that easy.

Grissom stretched and yawned. He walked back to the bedroom, took off his shoes, socks and pants and laid down once again. He sighed and closed his eyes.

It was just that easy.

Grissom opened his eyes and looked at the clock. It was 4:05 p.m. He had been out for 10 minutes.

_That dog is one lucky son-of-a-bitch,_ Grissom thought, and he turned to grab his cell phone off the nightstand. Still lying down, he tried one more tactic to clear his head.

"Hey. I know you're not in range. Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to say, … 'I'm sorry.' … ahh… I hope you're doing well. Love you."

Grissom ended the call, placed the cellular back on the night stand and then closed his eyes.

He opened them again at 6 p.m. Almost two hours of sleep.

Better than nothing.

--

The sun still hadn't completely set in Vegas, and Gil Grissom was out again. After calling KTNV, he discovered the trio of Tony Fiffer, Dana Mendez and Josh Link were covering an assignment about area businesses breaking water restrictions. Grissom parked his Denali next to the news van, which was near one of the accused businesses.

He stood by his Denali while they completed the report. Once they finished the feed, Josh Link got the camera back in the van and Grissom passed him as he approached Tony and Dana.

"Hey," Josh said to Grissom as they passed one another.

"Evening," Grissom replied and he moved towards the other two news people. "Excuse me? Dana Mendez and Tony Fiffer? I'm Gil Grissom from the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"Is there a problem?" Dana asked.

"I was hoping you might help with an investigation. Did you have a request from a fellow reporter about your Garrison Thompson report?" Grissom asked.

Tony quickly answered. "That was some story I did, huh? Did you see it?"

"Yes, I did. I was wondering if another reporter asked about it?"

"I tell you what, Grissom … you know, you look familiar. Have I seen you at news conferences?"

"Perhaps," Grissom said, sporting a patient smile. "Again, I was wondering if another reporter asked for that report?"

"That was a Sunday morning feel-good report. Got us a chance to get off Sundays and into homes doing dinnertime reports. I think it got the attention of a lot of colleagues," Tony said without answering the question.

"My God, Tony, get over yourself," Dana said. "There was a freelancer who asked about the report. He came to the station that Monday morning. Very charming. Irish name … his first name was Seamus."

"Seamus Flemming?" Grissom asked.

"Yes. He told me he was doing research for a story on prison ministry and faith-based movements and wanted the report," Dana said. "But you seem to know that already."

Josh Link was out of the news van again with his camera and called out to his colleagues. "Yo, Tony! You want to do that promo for the 11 o'clock segment?"

"Yeah, be right there," Tony yelled back. "Excuse me. Duty calls."

Neither Grissom nor Dana gave him a reply. "So are you investigating that Flemming guy or Thompson?" Dana asked.

"Both," Grissom said. "What exactly did Flemming ask about?"

"He was interested in Thompson. How we came across to others. How he treated people. How I felt about him. How we found out about the story."

"How did you find out about the story?"

"We were approached by Thompson's prison minister, Malcolm Banscomb. He was on the interview. I went ahead and gave Flemming Banscomb's contact info. If you're interested …"

"Yes, I would be interested in contacting him."

Dana gave Grissom a long look before speaking. "He works at the New Haven Youth Center on Cunningham. He usually is there until 10 or 11." Dana got the info from her electronic organizer and wrote down Banscomb's information on the back of one of her business cards.

"Thank you," Grissom said. "Flemming asked you how you felt about Thompson?"

"Yes, unusual question, I thought."

"You don't seem as enthusiastic about the story as Mr. Fiffer."

Dana laughed. "Call me cynical, but it's hard enough to have faith in ministers within a church. Add prison in the mix, and you question the magical way a person might find their spiritual gift behind bars. I'm not saying it's impossible, but there was something about Thompson — too much con man, not enough humility."

"Did you do a background check on Thompson before the report?" Grissom asked.

"I did, yes," Dana said. "He had no prior record. He moved about the country a bit, but from what we could see, he spent a good portion of time in North Carolina. But no arrests. No warrants. He either kept his nose clean till he got to Vegas, or he just never got caught before."

"So, you think his spiritual renewal is an act?" Grissom asked.

"It was more than that. Tony got in there for the interview, Thompson was on with the 'Yes, sir' and 'No, sir,' and Tony soaked it up like biscuits and gravy. But mind you, I was invisible. When I fixed Thompson's mic or tried to get information for the fill-in narrative, Thompson looked at me and treated me like I was piece of meat. Creepy. And definitely not something 'Jesus would do,'" Dana said, adding sarcasm. "And there were his four horsemen who were always around him."

"Excuse me?"

Dana called over to Josh, who was getting flustered with the 14th take Tony wanted for the promo. "Hey, Josh, come here!"

Josh ran over, camera still in grasp.

"Thank God. Tony's out of control. He wants to know if he should put emphasis on the 'to' or the 'be' or the 'water' or 'Tony' or 'Fiffer.' Dana, you know you have to tell that shit ahead of time 'cause the dickhead is driving me fuckin…," Josh said.

"Josh, calm the hell down."

"Oh," Josh said, looking at Grissom. "Sorry, bud. I'm Josh. What's up?"

Grissom nodded to Josh. "Gil Grissom, Las Vegas Crime Lab."

Josh smiled. "Cool."

"Josh, you remember the Garrison Thompson story out of Corlin?" Dana asked, and Josh nodded. "Remember how Thompson had that posse?"

"Yeah, that dude had some hard-core cons acting like his entourage," Josh said. "They didn't say a freakin' word, but you knew. Someone messes with Thompson, they have hell to pay."

"I don't suppose you got those guys on tape?" Grissom asked.

"We'd have to look at the unedited tape. But… yeah… I think I remember seeing them when I did some pan shots," Josh said. "Hey, if you're going to talk to 'Prison Jesus,' make sure you don't piss him off."

"I'll be sure to remember that, Josh. Thank you," Grissom said. "Is there any way I could get a copy of the unedited tape?"

"Come down to the station. I'll hook you up," Josh said.

"Mr. Grissom, we've been cooperative, so any chance you can let us know what's going on?" Dana asked.

"This is still an ongoing investigation so I can't say," Grissom said.

Dana gauged the man's answer. He was a tough nut to crack. "Well, you have my information."

"Yes, I do. Thank you. Could I follow you to the station now?"

Josh Link processed a DVD with the raw footage of the Thompson interview in no time. He showed Grissom where the men were on the tape, writing down the time stamp and location (right, center, left) for each "BD."

"Bad dude, man," Josh told Grissom. "These are bad dudes."

**TBC**

A/N: The reviews have been very kind. Thank your for them. I hope you enjoy this.


	12. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI. 

**Chapter 11**

Grissom left the station certain he could go to the youth center and talk with Malcolm Banscomb with plenty of time before his shift started.

New Haven Youth Center sat in a fairly safe part of Vegas. It might be mistaken for a spa, had it not been for the name captured on a blue, neon sign, which still blended into the aesthetically pleasing businesses that sandwiched the center on each side. Inside, a receptionist behind a large window greeted visitors with a smile (perhaps because the window was thick, bullet proof glass).

"Good evening, sir," said the receptionist to Grissom. "Are you here for a support meeting or the Bible study?"

Grissom retrieved his credentials and gave her a smile as he introduced himself. "I'm looking for a Malcolm Banscomb."

"Do you have an appointment with Reverend Banscomb?" she asked.

"No, but it is important for me to see him. It concerns Garrison Thompson."

The sound of Thompson's name lit up the woman's face, but she quickly changed her expression from contentment to concern. "Has something happened to Mr. Thompson?"

"No, ma'am. I got Reverend Banscomb's contact information from the Channel 13 crew who did the report on Mr. Thompson. I needed to ask Reverend Banscomb a few questions."

"Very well, I'll let the reverend know you are here, Mr. Grissom. Please have a seat."

Grissom took a step back from the glass and buried his hands in his pockets, opting to stand instead of sit. It wasn't long before the Reverend Malcolm Banscomb entered a door to the reception area."

"Yes, sir. Are you the gentleman who needed to see me?" Banscomb asked.

"Yes, Reverend Banscomb, my name is Gil Grissom. I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I'm here to ask you some questions about Garrison Thompson."

"Brother Garrison. Great man. His love of the Lord and his willingness to serve the Lord are immense. He's not in any trouble or danger, is he?"

"No, our lab is doing an investigation and Mr. Thompson's name has come up. Would you have time to answer some questions for me?"

"I suppose. If you'll follow me, we can go to my office."

The two men left the reception area and into the youth center. At first glance it looked like a YMCA, with several teams of young people — girls and boys — playing basketball. But there were also large meeting rooms and small conference rooms where adults and youths gathered. Banscomb explained some people listened to testimonials in larger rooms while private counseling sessions were held in smaller offices.

Banscomb's office offered audio privacy, but it resembled a fish bowl. He could look out at the playing ground and within some rooms, and passersby could see what was going on in his office.

"Now, what can I tell you about Brother Garrison, Mr. Grissom?" Banscomb asked, gesturing Grissom to sit down.

"You're a prison minister at Corlin?"

"Yes, for the past three years. It is part of my ministry."

"Something you enjoy?"

"I do. It can be difficult. But then someone like Brother Garrison comes around and you see the fruits of your labor. Makes the tough times seem bearable."

"When did you meet Mr. Thompson?"

"Three days after his conviction. Serendipity. We hit it off immediately. He admitted his fears and his failures and wanted to know how he could use his time wisely. Although it was his first offense, the judge gave him three years. But Brother Garrison told me he accepted his fate but didn't want to waste his time. He told me he wanted to fight his own demons by vanquishing others of their own."

"Did he know about your ministry here at New Haven?"

"He did know about it, yes. And I told him about my work with young people, yes."

"You have a very impressive facility, here," Grissom said.

"Thank you, sir, but I cannot take sole credit or most of it, for that matter. These walls were built by the generous support of benefactors. In my 12 years with the ministry, I have found people become quite grateful of the support and love they receive here."

"Was this the facility that received a large donation from the Milton Foundation?"

"Yes, two years ago Broderick Milton turned his life around at our center, praise God. This facility was built largely from the Milton donation. Two family members serve on the board. But this facility also received contributions of time, talent and treasure from many of our families," Banscomb said.

Grissom nodded. "You were talking about your relationship with Mr. Thompson."

"Well, I visit him about three times a week, and I immediately noticed his proficiency with the Bible. He told me he trained as an evangelical minister back in North Carolina. He is a gifted homilist. I encouraged him to offer his homilies at Sunday services, and with the permission of the warden, he did so," Banscomb said. "His words were like wildfire. So inspirational. That is when I thought his words would be so meaningful to youths. So I arranged visits to New Haven."

"You brought him here?" Grissom asked.

"Absolutely, and the response was amazing. Kids wanted to know his story and he kept them enraptured with his words."

"I noticed a couple of teens were interviewed for the segment that was on Channel 13."

"Yes, my son, Malcolm Jr., and Dennis Haggerty, one of our teen mentors. They are around here somewhere, if you wish to speak to them."

"Yes, please."

Banscomb stood up and scanned the courts outside his window. He quickly found his son, and excused himself. Once outside he called for Malcolm Jr., who stopped his game and trotted to his father.

"Malcolm, where's Dennis?"

"Doing a private session in Room…. 7, I think."

With his arm around his son, Banscomb brought him into his office. "Mr. Grissom, this is my son, Malcolm." The young man extended his hand to shake Grissom's hand. "Malcolm, Mr. Grissom's going to ask you a few questions about Brother Thompson. I'm going to find Dennis."

"Sure, no problem."

He and Grissom sat in Banscomb's office

"Tell me about Mr. Thompson."

"Cool guy. Lived on the edge. Wants to change his life. You know, story of redemption."

"How do your friends react to him?"

"All right, I guess."

"Did you interact with Mr. Thompson in a large group or privately?"

"Umm… what do you mean?" Malcolm Jr. seemed more interested in what was happening on the court than the questions about Thompson.

"Did you guys ever have private conversations?"

"Nah, either I was with a bunch of guys or with my dad."

"You trust Mr. Thompson?"

Giving a blank look of either confusion or disinterest, Malcolm said, "Yeah, I guess."

Grissom nodded to the young man while the two sat in silence. Grissom thought of a different line of questions. "So what do you think about March Madness?"

All the sudden, Malcolm's expression had life again. "Dude, I was hoping UNLV would be going all the way this year, but man, they messed up again! But it doesn't matter. Sweet Sixteen. Elite Eight. Final Four. It's going to be awesome!"

Grissom smiled and nodded as Malcolm continued his predictions for college basketball's premiere tournament. It seemed Garrison Thompson was high on Banscomb's list, but not so much for Malcolm Jr., who was more in awe of Grissom when he mentioned he had watched UNLV play in the finals 1990 when the Runnin' Rebels beat Duke for the NCAA tournament with Jerry Tarkanian as coach. (He didn't mention a colleague dragged him to the game when the two were at a seminar in Denver.)

"Ah, no way! That must have been incredible! Man, that was before I was born! Did Tarkanian do that thing with the towel in his mouth?" When Grissom said yes, Malcolm Jr. looked like he was ready to jump out of his skin. His father was entering the office with Dennis before his son could ask more questions. "Ah, man, that was the year Anderson Hunt was Most Outstanding Player. That dude was tight! … Oh, hey, Dennis."

Dennis displayed an apprehensive and tight demeanor as he stood next to Reverend Banscomb, who offered an introduction. "Mr. Grissom, this is Dennis Haggerty." Dennis barely gave a nod to Grissom. "Dennis, Mr. Grissom is from the Las Vegas Crime Lab and would like to ask you some questions about Brother Thompson."

"Why?"

Banscomb seemed a bit surprised and looked at Grissom for a moment then brought his eyes back on Dennis. Grissom replied, "There is an investigation underway and Mr. Thompson's name has been brought up. I'm just asking a few questions about him, since you know him."

"Why should I answer any of your questions?"

Banscomb felt compelled to speak. "Dennis, both Malcolm Jr. and I have answered some of Mr. Grissom's questions."

"Yeah, Dennis," Malcolm Jr. added. "Don't worry. He's cool."

Dennis spoke under his breath to Banscomb. "Reverend, this man might be looking for something to pin on Brother Thompson. He's an outsider. He shouldn't be trusted."

"Dennis, you cannot walk this Earth believing everyone is out to get you. A fear like that will only imprison you, not empower you."

"It is not a fear!" Dennis said in a loud stern voice. "It is a conviction! There are always people who will try to damage, punish and destroy the work of a good man like Brother Thompson!"

Grissom found this exchange educational. "Dennis, I simply want to ask questions about Garrison Thompson's ministry and your feelings about it. Nothing more."

_For now_, Grissom thought.

Dennis regained his composure. "You want to know about Brother Thompson? He's my mentor."

"He's mentored you personally, privately?" Grissom asked.

"Yes, I'm one of his chosen ones. I believe in what he stands for, Mr. Grissom."

"Would you do what he asks of you?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"Is he your strength?" Grissom said, garnering odd looks from Banscomb and his son. But not from Dennis.

"Yes. He is the one. He is my fire."

Banscomb took that comment as a cue to end the meeting. "Mr. Grissom, is there anything else?"

"I do have more questions, Reverend. Dennis, when was the last time you spoke with Mr. Thompson?"

"Two days ago. I visit him a few times a month," Dennis said, malice in his voice. "And our conversations are private. Counseling sessions."

"Mr. Thompson is your counselor? I didn't know he was a licensed therapist?"

Dennis took a step towards Grissom. "Brother Thompson doesn't need a license or permission to speak the truth … to guide people to the truth."

"During your teen mentor sessions with other teens, is that what you talk about? The truth?"

"If I believe the person is ready, perhaps. But that's not any of your business," Dennis said, taking another step forward. "You seem unworthy of the truth, if you ask me."

While Grissom did not move or change his expression, the exchange left Banscomb and his son uncomfortable. Banscomb moved behind Dennis and placed his hands on his shoulders. "Mr. Grissom, I believe Dennis should be getting back to his session, if you are finished."

"I believe that is it for now," Grissom said, smiling. "Thank you, Dennis. Malcolm."

Malcolm gave Grissom a nod. Dennis still stood in front of Grissom, with piercing eyes. He then turned and left without a word.

"I'll walk you out, Mr. Grissom," Banscomb said.

As the two made their way to the reception area, Banscomb felt obliged to say something about Dennis. "He's a good kid. An intense young man, but a good soul. He needs guidance and Brother Thompson took a shine to him."

Grisssom nodded. "His intensity shows. Reverend Banscomb, do all your employees and volunteers give fingerprints since they work with youths?"

"Of course."

"And the teen mentors?"

"Yes, we are in the process of doing that with them, as well," Banscomb said, leading Grissom out the door to the reception area.

"Thank you for your time, Reverend Banscomb. If I have any other questions, I'll contact you. Good to meet you."

"Much obliged, sir. God bless."

**TBC**

A/N: The reviews have been very kind. Thank your for them. I hope you enjoyed this and will continue reading.

A/N 2: I think I amend my original comment in the Prologue about Grissom's rectangular glasses. They are growing on me. Just thought I'd say that. What would convince me, of course, would be if he _just _wore the glasses. Sorry. Back to the story. Another chapter, if you like.


	13. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI. 

**Chapter 12**

When Catherine arrived for her shift at the lab, she went to find Grissom in his office. She was not surprised to see him at his desk with a vast volume of papers and printouts. It was a little surprising to see him leaning back in his chair and asleep.

Catherine gently tapped him on his shoulder. "Gil. … Gil. … Wake up."

Grissom awoke startled and a bit embarrassed. His hands clenched the papers he was holding, but he quickly brought one hand to his mouth to discreetly check for drool. He was fortunate. She would have teased him for weeks if there had been saliva on his face.

"How long have you been looking at this stuff?"

"Awhile."

"Are you sleeping at all? Like in bed? Like under covers?"

"It's been a long day. I'm fine."

Catherine approached the desk and picked up one of the papers. She sat down in one of Grissom's chairs. "Your bug case? How's it going? I heard you identified the victim."

Grissom looked up and sat back in his chair. "Yeah, a freelance journalist who seemed to be working on a story to discredit a jail house minister. How's your case going?"

"The other two girls. They had the tattoos too. But I still can't get an identification on them or the pimp."

"You'll figure it out."

"Thanks," Catherine said with a smile. "There's something else. The last girl was wearing a thick menstrual pad, but she was not menstruating. We found semen in her throat and nasal cavities, but we also found semen and vaginal fluid on the pad. And here's the kicker — the pad was slit open."

This perked Grissom up. "Did she hide something in there?"

"That's what I'm thinking."

"Did you print it?"

"Nothing on the cotton, of course, but I used your little trick. Got a partial on the adhesive on the back of the strip that didn't match the victim."

"What do you think she was hiding?"

"Well, with girls like that, drugs or money."

Grissom checked his watch. "I need to pass out the assignments. Shall we?"

There was enough work to go around, but not enough to warrant Grissom leaving the lab for the field. Although Grissom wanted to make more progress on the Flemming case, supervisor paperwork needed his attention. His stack was half done when a knock sounded on his office door frame.

"Warrick? Didn't I give you a B&E in Henderson?"

"The perp graciously came back to the scene to retrieve his wallet, which he lost during the robbery," Warrick said smirking.

"Ah. Makes for a quick resolution."

"Yeah. Need help with your case?"

Grissom looked at his watch. Two and a half hours of mindless paperwork was more than enough for one shift. "You got time?"

"Yeah."

"Let's get this stuff to a layout room, and I'll let you know what I have."

The men walked in silence, entered the evidence room and sorted through the materials.

"How did the Jackson press conference go?"

"Man, those media guys were scandal hounds. Brutal," Warrick said. "Yeah, but you knew that."

Grissom smiled and let out a soft laugh.

"Hey, Griss, about the other night. Look, man, I'm sorry …"

Grissom stopped him before Warrick could go on. "We both said things, Warrick. We were on edge. We'd been up too long and working too hard. Let's just … let it go."

Warrick knew that was probably the farthest the conversation could go. Which is why he was surprised when Grissom asked him, "Are you and Tina … are you OK?"

"Me? Yeah. Us? No. But that's OK. When it's over, it's over," Warrick said. "Thanks, though."

"Sure."

Afraid the conversation might tread into Grissom/Sara waters, Grissom quickly changed gears. He explained the information extracted so far.

"How many interviews did you do today?" Warrick asked.

Grissom paused. "Interviewed eight people and sat-in on an autopsy."

"Damn, man. You're like a machine," Warrick said. "Where do you need me to start?"

Grissom picked up the cellular and the IPod. "I started on the audio tapes and I'd like to look at the photos on the disks. I'm going to give Archie the surveillance tapes now. I need you to work on the home phone and cell phone records. We need to look at all the numbers, collect any text and voice messages received and check origins on everything. I don't think the home phone will yield too many calls. I think his cell was his primary source."

"What about the IPod? Want to see what music he was into?"

"That was in the safe deposit box with his cell phone. There must be a good reason both those items were there," Grissom said. "According to the log at the bank, he checked it in four days ago, about the same time he told Maggie Dominguez he was going out of town. Everything we have for him was at her house, except his will, the cell and the IPod."

"Why would he go out of town without his cell?" Warrick asked.

"Good question."

"I'll get on this stuff now," Warrick said.

As Warrick left to complete Grissom's request, Grissom went to Archie's lab to discuss the surveillance tapes and the Channel 13 footage.

"What do you want me to do with the news footage?"

"I need you to get a clean focus on all four of the BDs."

Archie laughed and looked at Grissom. "The what?"

"The BDs. Bad dudes," Grissom said with a completely straight face.

"OK… it's prison footage, you might have to be a little more specific…"

Grissom passed along the time stamp information. "It's an inside joke. You had to be there."

"I guess so," Archie said, a bit surprised at the levity Grissom displayed.

"I need you to focus on the four men indicated on the time stamps and get me the clearest photos possible. If you can, focus on defining marks for identification."

"Right. Now, what about these tapes?" Archie asked, pointing to the surveillance tapes.

"The tapes were too dark and grainy for the Mesquite office to pull anything. So we are looking for whatever we can. We're trying to see if coffins were transported or dropped off at unusual times. The Mesquite office mentioned there seemed to be something unusual about garbage pickup," Grissom said. "This set is only five days worth of surveillance. But this set is for the past three weeks."

"All right, Grissom. I'll let you know. I'll work on the 'BDs' first."

"Thank you."

Grissom left Archie and went to the break room for coffee and forage something out of the refrigerator. After he finished a piece of fruit, he refilled his coffee and made his way back to the office. Coming in the other direction was Brass, who joined Grissom to walk to his friend's office. But Grissom found it strange the way Jim looked at him.

"Jim, you need something?" Grissom asked.

"You're going to your office, right?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I'm just surprised," Jim said, as he looked behind Grissom as they continued to walk.

"Jim. Are you looking for something?"

"Well, where are your pillow and blankie?" Jim asked with a straight face. "You should have them if you're on your way to the office."

No one to blame but himself. Grissom walked right into that one.

The two walked into Grissom's office. With a smile still plastered on his face, Jim plopped in the chair in front of Grissom's desk. "So tell me about the Flemming case. I hear you've been a busy beaver."

"It looks like Flemming was investigating Garrison Thompson, an inmate at Corlin Correctional who has supposedly turned his life over to the Lord."

"One of those."

"It looks that way, although I talked to a few people who are convinced he is the real deal. He has a following at the New Haven Youth Center," Grissom said. "That's the place that got the sizeable donation from the Milton Foundation."

"I read about that, what a year ago? They've been working on a huge facility for a while. Didn't they hold a ground breaking for a new facility recently?"

"Yes. I went to the facility on Cunningham. Impressive."

"Lot of money in that facility. Supported by a lot of rich clients," Jim said. "Do you have an idea of what Flemming had on Thompson?"

"Well, judging by some of the notes I read before the shift…"

"You mean before naptime?"

Grissom sighed. "Why do I let you and Catherine in my office?"

"How else would you get up in time for juice and story-time?"

Grissom did chuckle as he tiredly rubbed a hand across his face. "Anyway ... Flemming started an investigation in Raleigh before he left for Iraq. He believed Thompson might have been behind a scam that targeted migrant farm workers. He believed an evangelical character conned them out of their money."

"Did Flemming find proof of that?"

"Not that I have seen, but I haven't gone through all of his stuff. But I did find this," Grissom reached through some papers and pulled out a page from a reporter's notebook with a name and contact information. "Flemming seemed to have a source with the police department in Raleigh."

"I can contact him and ask about Flemming. Have you checked Thompson for priors?"

"I haven't, no. When I talked to the news crew who did the story, they said they found nothing in his record, but it needs to be checked out."

"We can do that. Any aliases?"

"Not that I have found."

"So, you plan on talking to Thompson?"

"Before the next shift. I want to talk to the Mesquite detective about what we've found and see if he has anything interesting."

"I hope you plan on going home before you do the interview."

"Actually, no."

"Gil, come on," Jim said a little concerned and exasperated. "Don't think I haven't noticed you've been on zero sleep for about four or five days. Before you got on this case, you were working the Jackson murders with Nick and Warrick."

"You're right."

"What?" Jim was stunned

"I said, 'You're right.'"

"You feeling OK?"

"Why?"

"I thought I heard you admit that you need sleep."

"We all need sleep, Jim," Grissom said. "But the interview with Thompson is at 10. After that, I will go home and rest."

"All right, but you've got to get some sleep today," Jim left, but turned around. "Oh, remind me. How long of a drive is it to Corlin?"

"Maybe … 45 minutes?"

"OK," Jim said, quickly added. "Make sure you go potty first."

Stepped right into that one … again.

After Jim left, Grissom called Mathers in Mesquite to update the detective and gain any insight from him. Within 20 minutes, both men were caught up. Mathers was going to two cemeteries to track down possible leads. There were several phone calls from Hoffman Funeral Home to Indian Springs Cemetery that Clement Hoffman had no idea about.

Upon hanging up, Grissom received a text message from Archie — "BDs IDed with photos." Grissom smiled and went to Archie's lab.

"Ah, you got my text," Archie said, spinning in his chair and handing Grissom a stack of 8x10 prints. "Your BDs. I could read the names on some of the jumpsuits, but not all of them."

Grissom put on his glasses and took the photos "This is good, Archie, thank you," Grissom said, scanning the photos until he stopped on one. "Let me see your loupe, please."

Looking at the magnified image, Grissom set it down, and opened his cellular. "Catherine, it's Gil. How are you? … Good. I'm fine, thank you. … Where are you now? I need to show you something."

"I'm in a layout room with evidence from a convenience store break-in," Catherine told Grissom over her cell. "What is it, Gil? Is it important?"

"I'm in Archie's lab. Your girls' tattoo … I think we found a match."

Catherine straightened up. "I'll be right there."

**TBC**

A/N: The reviews have been very kind. Thank your for them. I hope you enjoyed this and will continue reading.


	14. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI. 

**Chapter 13**

True to her word, Catherine shot into Archie's lab in no time. Grissom showed Catherine an image of one of Thompson's four prison mates, who sported a tattoo of a cross on fire on his upper left arm.

"According to the news crew who filmed the Garrison Thompson piece, Thompson had four guys who followed him around the prison. Archie was able to get visual IDs of the four guys from the raw news footage," Grissom explained.

"How long has this guy been in prison?" Catherine asked, pointing to the prisoner with the similar tattoo.

"We just got a visual ID on him, but not a name," Grissom said. "But I'm going to Corlin this morning to interview Thompson. I wanted to check these four while I was there."

"I'm coming, too," Catherine said, not at all as a question.

--

Before their shift ended, both Grissom and Catherine left for their homes. Catherine hoped to spend a little time with Lindsey and take her to school. Grissom wanted to take a shower and, thinking he might not be able to spend time with Hank, drop the boxer with the sitter. Catherine invited Grissom to her house for breakfast and afterwards they would leave for Corlin Correctional.

When he gathered his briefcase to leave, Grissom saw a note on his desk from Warrick.

"Griss, I'm still working on information on the iPod and I need to get a translator for a piece of audio. But I copied this one audio file on CD. I think you should listen to it — Warrick."

Grissom took the CD and exited his office for home.

--

As Grissom stood under the shower spray, his mind tried to fight the fatigue plaguing his body. Before he knew it, he was leaning against the tiled wall. His eyelids were heavy and his only conscious movement was his right hand massaging the back of his neck.

He wished someone else were there to do that for him.

Perhaps it was that thought that brought him out of his daze. Perhaps it was the gradually cooling water spraying from the showerhead.

It didn't matter because Grissom felt the need to straighten up. His body ached and while one arm went to support his lower back, the other hand cradled his face as he tightly closed his eyes to avoid tears from spilling out.

Perhaps it was the pain in his back that brought on the tears. Perhaps it was the thoughts of longing in his heart.

_It doesn't matter_, Grissom thought. All that mattered was focus. Shower. Sleep. Eat. Work. Repeat. Of course, that mantra might not be doable this morning.

_Maybe I can sleep in the car_, Grissom thought.

--

"You still eat meat, right?" Catherine asked her friend as she opened her front door for Grissom.

"Not all the time, but yes," Grissom said, as an aroma filled his nostrils. "Burgers for breakfast?"

"I haven't eaten anything in 15 hours. I'm starved," Catherine said. "But, on Lindsey's advice, I cooked one of her turkey burgers for you. She said the beef might wreak havoc on your system if you haven't had it for while. But if you prefer beef…"

"No, the turkey burger is fine. Thank you," Grissom said, grateful for Lindsey's foresight. He wasn't sure how his stomach would take one of Catherine's monster burgers either.

Catherine spread out cheese, lettuce, tomato, pickles, onions and condiments on the counter. She also put a plate with a few strips of bacon, which she immediately put on her burger. It didn't totally shock her that Grissom passed up the bacon and went straight for the lettuce and tomato.

"You've really got it bad, don't you?" Catherine said, snickering. "I remember when you would put bacon, cheese and chili on a burger, and never question whether to have it for breakfast or not."

"Catherine, it's not like I can afford to eat like that anymore. I probably couldn't afford to eat like that 10 or 15 years ago," Grissom countered.

"You've changed."

The comment caught Grissom off guard. The pit of his stomach lurched a bit. "I … Catherine … I don't know what to say to that."

Catherine looked at Grissom. The bags under his eyes were noticeable when he walked into the house. Her comment made him look more forlorn and fatigued. "Gil, don't get defensive. I'm not saying it's a horrible thing. I'm just saying, you've changed."

"You're making it sound like it's a bad thing," Grissom said.

"Now, wait a minute, that's not what I meant …"

"You've changed a lot too, you know," Grissom interrupted.

Catherine's look said as much as her words. "Excuse me?"

"You changed after Lindsey was born. You changed when Eddie left you. You changed when he died. You changed a bit every time you discovered more and more about Sam. You changed when he died. There had been plenty of times you've changed."

"Yeah, OK," Catherine countered. "But not in one fell swoop."

"Catherine, Sara and I have been together as a couple for more than two years. When exactly did the swoop fall?"

"Now, that's not fair," Catherine retorted. "You never let us know about your relationship."

"How long have we known each other?"

"I don't know. What 16, 17 years?"

"So, Catherine," Grissom said, with logic and resolve, not malice or anger. "Are you more surprised on how I changed or the fact I changed at all?"

She was stuck. She hated when he did this to her. Usually she could keep her upper hand, but there were times when mental chess was not the game to play when Grissom was the opponent.

She chuckled and pressed her clothes. "It's not that … You know what? It's OK. Finish your breakfast. We have to get going."

The two ate their burgers, cleaned up the condiments and plates and got ready to go. There was still a strip of bacon left on a plate. Catching up to Catherine, who was at the front door reaching for coat out of a closet, Grissom broke the bacon in half and popped a piece in his mouth.

"For old times," he said. He gave the last portion of bacon to Catherine, who ate it, and then he helped her put on her coat.

Catherine gave a warm smile. "Get in my SUV. I'm driving."

"Some things never change," Grissom said as he closed Catherine's front door.

**TBC**

**A/N: **The reviews have been very kind. Thank your for them. I hope you enjoyed this and will continue reading.


	15. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI. 

**Chapter 14**

After the discussion during breakfast, Catherine did not make conversation in the car with Grissom. He put on his sunglasses and leaned back in the seat. His thoughts were on Seamus Flemming and Garrison Thompson. He needed to make the most of this interview and then submerge himself in Flemming's notes to see if any connection existed between the two men.

As Catherine, parked the SUV, Grissom sat up. "Catherine, I'd like you to be in the interview with Thompson, if that's OK with you. We can talk to the warden together about the IDs of the four prisoners."

"Sounds like a plan," Catherine said.

--

After checking into the medium security prison, Catherine and Grissom were taken to a visitation room and waited for Thompson. Looking through the bullet-proof glass, the criminologists watched as the prisoner was escorted to the room. A guard who had been waiting at the door when Grissom and Catherine arrived said something to Thompson's escort, who was dismissed. The guard followed Thompson into the room.

Thompson's most prominent feature was his red hair. Otherwise he was a thin Caucasian who could pass for an everyday man. Another person in an expensive suit also followed Thompson into the visitation room. He spoke to the criminologists on Thompson's behalf, and extended a hand to Grissom first.

"Good morning. I am Alex Milton, counsel for Mr. Thompson. He asked I be here for the interview."

"Gil Grissom. This is Catherine Willows. We both are with the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"OK, Mr. Thompson is prepared to answer questions and for the record he is offering full cooperation."

"We appreciate that," Grissom said. "Mr. Thompson, do you know a Seamus Flemming?"

Thompson sat with his elbows on the table and his handcuffed hands under his chin. His smile seemed reserved, as was his southern accent. "Mr. Flemming requested an interview with me, some 10 days ago."

"What prompted his request?" Grissom asked.

"He was interested in my ministry. May I ask what prompted this sit-down and the line of questions?"

"Mr. Flemming was found murdered."

Thompson removed his hands from under his chin and clasped them together. He began to utter a prayer, which prompted his lawyer to reverently lower his head. Catherine felt the need to roll her eyes, but upon looking at Grissom, who looked non-emotional and contemplative, she, too, composed a professional demeanor.

"I'm very sorry to hear of his passing," Thompson said.

"My client's contact with this Seamus Flemming seemed to be minimal, so I'm not sure why you would want to talk to him," Milton said.

"Mr. Thompson," Grissom, pushing aside the lawyer's comment, "are you originally from North Carolina?"

"Born and bred, yes sir."

"How long did you spend in Raleigh?"

"Oh, I don't know," Thompson said, casually leaning back into his chair. "I floated from place to place. I suppose a while."

Grissom smiled in return. "You were in Raleigh before you arrived here, is that right?"

"That is true, sir. That is true."

"And you arrived in Vegas when?"

"I suppose about five months ago."

"And you've been in lock up almost four months," Catherine interjected.

Thompson never even looked at Catherine or changed the expression on his face in reaction to her comment.

"Mr. Grissom, this city is full of sin. It leads men to sin. It did not take long for me to be caught in the clutches of its evils."

"I believe it was Juvenal who said, 'No one becomes depraved all at once,'" Grissom said.

"That is true, Mr. Grissom, but I believe a misjudgment should not be a total sign of depravity, especially when a perpetrator faces punishment for that misjudgment. There are men in this prison willing to change, willing to set aside depraved ways to seek the truth. I am one of those men."

"Your misjudgment was armed robbery and possession of a controlled substance, when, according to your tox report, you were under the influence," Catherine said.

Again, Thompson offered no response, no reaction to Catherine. "Mr. Grissom, sometimes faith is the key to change. These men have little faith and I give it to them."

"Could we get back to the subject at hand, please?" Grissom pleaded. "Seamus Flemming. He worked in Raleigh, N.C., before coming to Las Vegas. Did you know him or meet him while you were in Raleigh?"

"Not to my knowledge, no."

"Were you a minister while in Raleigh?"

"I did not have an active ministry."

"Perhaps you had a ministry among migrant farm workers?"

"No, sir, I did not."

"May we ask what you did do in Raleigh?" Catherine asked.

This time, the lawyer stepped in. "This line of questioning is confusing, to say the least. You asked Mr. Thompson if he knew Flemming and he said, 'No.' I can't see what else you would need from my client."

"Mr. Milton, we do have more questions concerning Mr. Flemming's interview with Mr. Thompson."

Thompson faced his lawyer. "Brother Alex, I don't mind. I have nothing to hide. You must have faith in me. Go ahead, Mr. Grissom."

"The interview with Mr. Flemming…"

"Yes, well, it is funny you ask about Raleigh because Mr. Flemming also asked me about my time back home, although he did not tell me he worked at the 'Daily Ledger' there."

"Mr. Thompson," Catherine said in a voice that demanded his attention on her. "What did you two talk about?"

This time, Thompson looked at Catherine up and down with a cold stare. Catherine held her own. She neither displayed a sense of fear nor a sense of repulsion.

Grissom, on the other hand, could not let that go. "I believe my colleague asked you a question, Mr. Thompson."

"We talked about redemption. We talked about falsehoods. And we talked about faith," Thompson said, as he turned the charm on once again. "Mr. Grissom, when was the last time you thought about your own faith? I imagine you must deal with death and tragedy and dishonor and evil every day. Who was it who said, 'Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster?'"

"Nietzsche," Grissom replied.

"Yes," Thompson said, eagerly leaning as far forward as possible. "Tell me, what keeps you from the abyss, Mr. Grissom? For me, it is my faith. My steadfast resolve that great evil must be fought with great vengeance. That faith must be delivered with a strong hand and a sword of conviction in order to beat the demons that hold mortal men in chains of sin."

"For you, faith is not for the weak."

"No, not at all, Mr. Grissom. For only the strong. For only those ready to seek the truth. I am a prophet of that truth. I believe God has chosen me, as he did before with his own son. And with men willing to follow me — to follow the truth — we can take control and bring forth a world worthy of its creator."

"Those followers — you are their strength."

"I am."

"You are their fire?"

"I am."

"And your symbol is a cross?"

"A cross that burns with the power of the Holy Spirit," Thompson declared. Fully in his preaching mood, he could not contain his words. "That is the faith we must believe in! That is the powerful, strong, determined and fiery faith that we have to let take hold of our souls. Our power will overpower the workings of sin! Is that how you believe, Mr. Grissom. Can you feel that in your soul?"

"No."

The single word seemed to deflate Thompson. And Grissom took the split second to continue. "I wonder when you speak, where is the joy? Didn't Jesus greet his followers with, 'Shalom?' Peace be with you?" Grissom asked. "The faith the messiah presented was to empower others, not to create power for himself through fear and blind obedience."

Thompson listened, but soon let out a laugh. "Ahh, blind obedience. You are a scientist, aren't you, Dr. Grissom?"

"We both are," Grissom said, pointing to Catherine and himself.

"Scientists — our world's true 'Doubting Thomases.' Without the existence of empirical proofs, you scientists state there is no way faith can exist. But remember the Gospel of John, 'Blessed are those who do not see and still believe.'"

"But doubt is good," Grissom countered. "It stimulates faith. Sometimes it is not a need to seek evidence of the existence of divine grace, but rather contend, with a critical eye, if there is evidence of insincerity or malice behind the motives of a person peddling faith. Is that what stimulated your and Mr. Flemming's discussion on falsehoods, Mr. Thompson?"

"Let me make myself perfectly clear, Mr. Grissom. I am sincere in my mission. And while it is true the faith of other men empowers me, it is not because I take that power, it is because it is given to me."

"By men," Catherine added. "And only men? I seem to remember faith-filled women in the Bible, Mr. Thompson."

"Those women, as with today, were there to serve, not to follow."

"And tell me," Catherine said, offering the photos Archie provided, "are these men some of your followers?"

Thompson snatched the photos, without looking Catherine in the eyes. "They are men faithful to my mission."

"Could you identify them, please?" Grissom asked.

"Dexter Fitzgerald," Thompson said, throwing back the photo. "Claudio Ortiz is on the left and Jack Donahue is on the right. And this is Hunter Washington." That showed the photo of the man with the tattoo similar to the ones on murdered girls. Catherine took the photo.

"Mr. Thompson, did Mr. Washington have this tattoo prior to becoming one of your followers?"

"That is something to ask him. I am not his keeper."

"We'll do that," Grissom said. "I do have one more question. Mr. Thompson, what is your relationship with Dennis Haggerty?"

Thompson's face lit up for the first time since the conversation seemed to leave his grasp. "Dennis is a wonderful young man. I've become somewhat of a mentor to the boy," Thompson said. "He, Mr. Grissom, understands the truth and accepts it. He is worthy of the truth."

"And he visits you here?"

"He does."

"When did you last see him?"

"Two days ago. We will probably see each other again tomorrow," Mr. Thompson said. "Should I give him your regards?"

"If you wish," Grissom said. "Catherine, do you have any other questions?"

"No, I believe Mr. Thompson is free to go."

The last thing Thompson was going to do is let a woman give him permission for anything. "Anything else, Mr. Grissom?"

"No, if Catherine is satisfied, I am as well."

"Very well. God bless, and please drive safely."

Grissom and Catherine gathered their items, and Thompson turned around to leave. But before he was out of earshot, Catherine said, "I always do."

--

"He is something else," Catherine said, looking at the photos one more time before putting them in her briefcase. "That misogynistic son-of-a-bitch put on quite a performance."

"The female reporter mentioned to me how he treated women differently. She said he treated her like a 'piece of meat.'"

"Well, that's appropriate," Catherine said. "I can't believe people fall for his act. I mean there's no telling if the prisoners are being sincere in any type of conversion, but did you see his lawyer? And did you catch his name?"

"Milton. You know, the Milton family has a connection with the New Haven Youth Center, and Thompson has been there to give testimonials. The director there describes him as a 'great man,'" Grissom said. "It makes you wonder what Thompson's plans are for when he is released from prison."

"The next big TV evangelist?" Catherine speculated.

"And to do that you need money," Grissom said.

"And know the right people," Catherine added. "Gil, I know this guy has some kind of connection to the murdered girls and to your dead reporter, but we didn't find anything here to support that."

"Did you notice that he mentioned where Flemming worked while he was in Raleigh?"

"What do you mean?"

"When we asked about his interview with Flemming, Thompson seemed surprised that Flemming didn't tell him that he worked at the 'Daily Ledger.' Neither one of us mentioned that Flemming worked there."

"So he did know Flemming?"

"We can't prove it yet, but I think he did."

**TBC**

**A/N: **The reviews have been very kind. Thank your for them. I hope you enjoyed this and will continue reading.


	16. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I owe nothing to do with CSI. Thanks for everything, Warrick. We miss you already.

**Chapter 15**

While walking out of the interview room, Grissom noticed he had one missed call on his cell from Warrick. He called him immediately.

"Hey, Grissom."

"Good morning, Warrick," Grissom looked at his watch to confirm it was still morning. "Do you have something?"

"I wanted to let you know about a call made from Flemming's cell phone. Are you still at the prison?"

"Yes."

"Good. The last number Flemming called from his cell phone was to a phone registered under Paul Tran. He's a guard at Corlin Correctional. Maybe you can catch up to him."

"Good work, Warrick. Thanks."

"You got it. I'm still working on a few things, but we can talk about them tonight."

"Thanks. See you later." Grissom hung up his phone and relayed the information to Catherine. The two went to speak to the warden.

--

After sitting in the waiting area of the warden's office for 20 minutes, the receptionist spoke to Catherine and Grissom. "Mr. Grayson will you see you now."

When his office door opened, Warden Carl Grayson stopped writing on his notepad, removed his eyeglasses and stood to greet his visitors. "Good to meet you both. You were questioning one of my prisoners and needed some information. How can I help the crime lab?"

"We're currently investigating a series of homicides and need to look at log sheets and surveillance video available for some prisoners."

"Who are we talking about, Mr. Grissom?"

"Garrison Thompson," Grissom said.

"Warden, we are also interested in these inmates," Catherine said as she approached Grayson's desk and spread photos across it. "Mr. Thompson has identified them as..."

"Claudio Ortiz, Hunter Washington, Dexter Fitzgerald and Jack Donahue. Where there is inmate Thompson, those four are not far behind."

"Warden, do you recognize this tattoo?" Catherine pointed to Hunter Washington's tattoo. "Is this indicative of a prison gang or a significant marking that you know of?

"I don't believe so, Ms. Willows. I'm not sure if the guards might know. I can ask around for you," Grayson said.

"We would also need any complaints registered against or by the five inmates," Grissom said.

"I can't remember any complaints registered by them, but there might be inmates who have registered complaints _about_ them. That will take some time to research, but we can get it to you as soon as possible."

"Thank you," Grissom said. "Is video surveillance of visitations available?"

"We do have surveillance. I have to see how long we keep the tapes. How far back are you interested?"

"Whatever you could provide would be most appreciated," Grissom said. "Also, we would need to speak with one of your guards — Paul Tran."

"Tran… why should I know that name?" Grayson put on his glasses and left his desk to retrieve a file from a cabinet. "Yes, now I remember. I just signed off on some last minute vacation leave for Mr. Tran. He won't be back to work until the day after tomorrow."

"When did his leave begin?" Catherine asked.

"Six days ago," Grayson said and he jotted down some information on a pad. He ripped the paper and handed it to Catherine. "His contact information, should you be interested. … If there is nothing else, I do have a lunch appointment…"

"No, thank you for your time," Catherine said.

"If you come with me I can take you to the security department. They can offer you the logs and the tapes you are requesting," Grayson said.

--

Catherine and Grissom sat in the security department awaiting their tapes. They viewed bits and pieces of surveillance while security personnel located the appropriate footage. One of piece of footage revealed the most recent visit of Dennis Haggerty.

"That's him?" Catherine asked.

"Yeah, I guess that is one of his counseling sessions."

Knowing this was the appropriate footage, the prison worker fast-forwarded the entry. But Catherine saw something that made her jump.

"WAIT! Stop it! Go back, go back," she asked the prison worker. "Stop … there. Stop there. Grissom. Look. That's one of my girls."

Grissom leaned into the screen. Although it was a grainy image, Grissom recognized the closely-cropped hair and a tattoo on the back on her neck. "She's not visiting Thompson. Catherine, where are those photos?" Grissom looked at Thompson's posse, and stopped on one of them. "She was visiting this man."

He showed Catherine the image, who concurred with Grissom's theory.

"Excuse me, but we would also need visitor logs and video surveillance for these four inmates, as well."

"I'll have to confirm it with the warden," the worker stated.

"That's fine," Grissom said. "Why don't we page him?"

--

It was 1 p.m. when Catherine and Grissom left Corlin Correctional. But they didn't leave empty-handed. Visitor logs and surveillance tapes from visitations could yield some connection between the prisoners and the murders Grissom and Catherine were investigating. Catherine was going to offer to stop for lunch, but as they were waiting for the tapes to be completed, she noticed Grissom getting a twitch, as he would whenever a migraine would come on.

She could tell it was really bothering him when they stepped outside.

"You want me to drop you off at your place? We can get you to your car later?"

"It's not a long drive. I think I'll be fine," Grissom said. "But, would you mind if I laid down in the back seat? I'm not trying to be rude …"

"Gil, don't be ridiculous, of course," Catherine said. She couldn't believe he even asked. She thought she'd have to push the stubborn jackass into the back seat herself. When they approached the car, she opened the rear hatch to put in their cases. "Here, take this jacket. Use it as a pillow."

"Thanks," Grissom said, and he got into the backseat. He removed his windbreaker and placed it over his head.

After Catherine got situated in the driver's seat, she spied Grissom in her rearview mirror. He looked like a 419 at a crime scene. "You OK?"

"Yes. Thank you," Grissom said in a muffled voice.

"Good."

"Hey Cath?"

"Yeah."

Grissom removed the jacket from his head. "Thanks for driving."

"_Damn. He is being way too nice. He should be 'belligerent Grissom with a migraine' by now," _Catherine thought. _"He must be goddamn tired."_

"You got it," Catherine said, speaking the last words throughout the drive.

--

Stretched out in the back seat of the SUV, Grissom didn't sleep. He knew it would have been polite to at least stay in the front seat for the drive, but he couldn't keep his manners in check with his head pounding and his mind replaying the interview with Thompson.

Thompson was a dangerous individual. His charismatic demeanor made his words strike stronger chords with those willing to listen and believe. Grissom's head didn't begin to hurt until he viewed the visitation tapes. Dennis Haggerty sat intent on absorbing every crumb of wisdom from his mentor. Haggerty's body language on tape and in person told Grissom the young man would do anything for Thompson. The preacher preyed on that boy, and that boy willingly accepted it no questions asked. It made Grissom twitch.

**TBC**

A/N: I do like reviews and you readers have been kind. I hope the story is gripping enough for you all.


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Grissom's drive from Catherine's house to his own house was thankfully unremarkable. He stepped into the townhouse completely alone. He had forgotten Hank was at the sitter's. He missed the sound of the pads on Hank's feet made as he greeted its master.

Grissom cleared his throat and the sound reverberated in the room, almost teasing Grissom about his loneliness. After placing his mail and briefcase on a table, he went to look for his medicine and something to drink.

Showered and dressed in more casual clothes, Grissom returned to the table and waited for the medication to kick in — sleep could be a good side effect. Although he glanced at his mail, he noticed the audio CD from Warrick that Grissom had brought home from work laying on top of his briefcase. Grissom went to the stereo and inserted the CD.

"Seamus Flemming, March 22, 2008. Las Vegas, Nevada." There was a lilt in Flemming's voice, indicative of a man who lived among relatives with thick brogues. "I'm not sure who will listen to this tape, but I … ," Flemming's voice hitched and paused as he continued. "I made a terrible mistake. I let my own pride get in the way of making a proper decision, and I'm so afraid Lydia Ortiz paid the ultimate price."

Grissom took notes as he listened.

"Leaving for Iraq was not a mistake. And I don't say that because of the bombing. I was lucky and anyone in my place would have done what I did." Grissom thought this must have been a humble young man. Not many people would have had the mind or courage to save the lives of others in such a dangerous and unpredictable situation. "Those Marines needed someone to chronicle their lives, and I was honored to do that. As far as I'm concerned, I'm living on borrowed time. And I have to make this right.

"Before I left, I worked on a story in which I believed an evangelical preacher — El Rey del Fuego — preyed on farm workers. He bullied his way into these people's lives using the Bible and fear. I wanted to prove he was involved in drugs, dealt in human trafficking and extortion. I couldn't get close to him; he told the farm workers he trusted no 'gringos,' and they should not either. I did hear some homemade tapes of his sermons, and the closest I got to him was his second-in-command — Victor Chapute."

Grissom made a note to grab a Spanish-English dictionary for some of the phrases Flemming mentioned. The thought of Thompson being involved in human trafficking made Grissom more convinced of his dangerous nature.

"Authorities were not too impressed with any of my findings. I contacted Captain Johnson several times, but nothing came of it. I had no name. But now I do. At least, I think I do.

"Not many farm workers would talk to me. Those who would had no knowledge of who El Rey was. Those who did were afraid to talk — afraid they would be deported, afraid of Victor, even afraid they were going against the word of God. Except Lydia. She had seen her mother and uncle's family fall under El Rey's spell and she wanted to do anything to break it."

"When I left, I thought the story would sit. Foolish … foolish and selfish. I should have told Maggie the whole story. She could have managed the story, probably working with Dylan and Steve at the Ledger. But I thought El Rey would never leave his cash cow.

"When I came back to Raleigh after Iraq, Victor and El Rey were gone — not a trace. The same was true for Lydia and her mother. Her other family simply said, 'Se fueron.' But I know Lydia wouldn't have left with letting me know somehow. After a month of trying, I knew I did something wrong, but I suppose I held on to the idea that El Rey found a fatter cash cow and that Lydia went to San Antonio for college, as she hoped."

"When I saw that prison report and heard that voice, I knew it was him," Flemming laughed a bit. "I couldn't believe my eyes. He couldn't have been more of a gringo." Then he became serious again.

"I became obsessed. He wasn't after farm workers this time. I guess that was practice for him. Authorities didn't care he targeted migrant farm workers, especially when many are deemed illegals. When I drove from Raleigh to Vegas, I stopped in Texas to look for Lydia," Again, Flemming's voice hitched. "I couldn't find her."

"If Garrison Thompson is here, I know Victor can't be far behind. He was not in prison with Thompson, which means he's on the outside doing his dirty work. And it is there, I know it. I've trolled the streets, and found pieces here and there. About a week ago, I was able to get with one hooker, Angela. We talked and she admitted Victor was her pimp. She had his mark — a cross on fire tattoo. How appropriate. I left her at a DV shelter. I hope she's still there. I hope she didn't go back.

"Garrison and Victor are adept at dealing drugs, and they would never abandon that cash flow. Hopefully a prison guard can clear up connections for me. That is where I am in the investigation. His name is Paul Tran."

Flemming cleared his throat and released a long breath. "I feel like I haven't gotten far enough with this investigation, but I think they know about me. I'm leaving my iPod and cellular in the safe deposit box because I don't want them to get my contacts and research. If there's one thing I've learned from the Marines it is: 'Think ahead, watch your back, your buddies' backs, and react to the moment.' I hope safeguarding this will help someone else react to the moment. And Mags, if it's you listening, be careful and take care of those babies, and … I'm sorry. Beannacht Dé leat. End."

Grissom sat still as the CD came to an end. After voraciously listening to Flemming's works and taking notes, Grissom now felt drained. He could tell the anguish and frustration in Flemming's voice, a man who seemed to be at the end of a rope. Grissom wondered if the young man knew that he recorded his final words.

"Beannacht Dé leat," Grissom whispered aloud to no one in particular. "God's blessings to you, too, Seamus Flemming."

Grissom extracted the CD and tucked it away in his briefcase. He checked his watch — 3:05 p.m. He reached for the phone to call Brass and give him information to use when he talked to Captain Johnson, the name of the officer Grissom had found in Flemming's notes yesterday.

"OK, Grissom," Brass said, sleep still evident in his voice. "This will give us a lot more to talk about. I'll try to call in a couple of hours."

"I'm sorry I woke you, Jim," Grissom said.

"No, it's OK. Not like I can't get back to sleep," Brass said with a chuckle. "You sleep yet?"

"I'm ready now." Grissom ended his call as he walked to the bedroom. He lay down on his bed and fell right to sleep.

**TBC**

A/N: I do like reviews and you readers have been kind. I hope the story is gripping enough for you all.


	18. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I don't owe CSI.

**Chapter 17**

Grissom opened his eyes but couldn't move his body. While his mind heard his cell phone, his body was still locked in sleep mode. A couple of deep breathes and he willed his arm to move and grab his phone.

"Grissom," he mumbled, still with sleep in his voice.

"Dr. Grissom. Ray Mathers. Did I wake you?"

"Detective," Grissom said, sweeping his legs off the bed. He looked at the clock. Five hours of sleep. "Do you have something?"

"I just got off the phone with a sheriff out in Overton. Seems there was a worker caught in the act robbing graves by the curator of the St. Joseph Cemetery. Local sheriff saw my bulletin about suspicious activity at cemeteries and gave me a call," Mathers said. "I checked out the suspect's name and it seems he was a former cellmate of Lyle Mackenzie's at Corlin. Interested in meeting me over there?"

Grissom smiled slightly at the news. He was wide-awake and alert now. "I'll be on the road in 10 minutes."

--

Overton sat on the outskirts of Valley of Fire State Park on Nevada State Road 169, about an hour from Vegas and 45 minutes from Mesquite. Grissom went to the local sheriff's station to meet Mathers. He recognized the Mesquite detective's truck in the lot and parked next to it. When Grissom got out of his SUV, Mathers was already on his way to meet him.

"Remember those calls to Indian Springs Cemetery?" Mathers asked as the two men entered the station. "They turned out to be a dead end. But I did get a subpoena for Lyle Mackenzie's cellular, and I found several calls to this cemetery. When I got a call from the Overton sheriff, I thought this might be a break for us."

The local sheriff greeted Grissom and Mathers. While the three men went into the interrogation room where Tony Nuncio sat, the Overton Sheriff stood by the door allowing Mathers and Grissom to take the lead in the interview.

"Well, I don't understand why I need all this attention for lifting a couple of pocket watches off dead people," Nuncio said. "What's going on here?"

"Mr. Nuncio, you were at Corlin Correctional not long ago, right?" Mathers asked.

"Yeah. So what?"

"When was the last time you talked to Lyle Mackenzie?" Grissom asked.

Nuncio looked surprised by the question. "Never heard of him?"

"What's the matter, Tony?" Mathers asked. "Memory not what it used to be? That was your cellmate for a couple of years."

"Yeah, well, I ain't talked to him. I don't even know if he's out."

"Is that right?" Mathers said. "Tony, your boss is a little concerned about what you've been doing in your off time."

"Look, I told you I took some stuff out of a couple of graves. What the hell's the problem? They're already dead," Nuncio said.

"We're not just talking about that Tony," Mathers said, slowly closing the gap between him and Nuncio. "Tell me, have you and Mackenzie been digging extra graves?"

Nuncio shifted in his seat. "I don't know what you're fuckin' talking about."

"Graves, Tony. Your boss is a little confused. After he found you pilfering graves, he found some equipment on the far west end of the cemetery that's reserved for pauper graves. He hasn't had any requests for pauper graves in months," Mathers said.

Nuncio leaned in and spit in Mathers' face as he spoke. "Look. If the fuckin' boss don't know about the graves then I don't know about the graves. I dig what he tells me to dig. And you can't prove nothing different."

"When was the last time you talked to Mr. Mackenzie?" Grissom asked.

"I already fuckin' told you!" Nuncio said, highly agitated. "I have no idea where Lyle is and I haven't talked to him!"

"According to phone records, he called you at the cemetery several times in the past couple of weeks," Grissom said, pushing copies of the records to Nuncio, who couldn't care less. "You seem to be on your own on the grounds, but one of the stipulations of your parole is if you are within the office taking time off, you have to punch in and out. And every call Mackenzie made from his cell phone to this cemetery went to a direct line in the break room. And each time he called, it corresponded with a time you were on break."

Nuncio looked all around the room. And nervously tapped his feet and scratched his head.

"You sure you don't want to say anything, Tony? Because we have a car bringing Lyle into the Mesquite office right now," Mathers said. "Now I'm thinking that when we find these graves, and we will, we will find a bunch of your fingerprints on the coffins. That will leave you as the person linked to murdered individuals. I wonder if Lyle will agree with that theory?"

Nuncio perked up. "Now, wait a minute. I didn't kill anyone. All I fuckin' did was dig the holes and put the coffins in the holes. Lyle had this scam. When a pauper burial came in, he wouldn't tell his boss and he would pocket the government money himself. I got a cut."

"How much?" Mathers asked.

"Um… 250 a grave. But I didn't even know what the hell was in the coffins."

"This coming from a grave robber," Mathers said, patting Grissom on the arm and letting out a chuckle.

Nuncio closed his eyes. "All right, fine, I knew what was in the coffins."

"You robbed from coffins marked for pauper graves?" Grissom asked.

Nuncio looked at him like Grissom was crazy. "Well, shit. Just because it's a pauper grave doesn't mean the stiff was poor!"

Mathers arched his brows at Grissom, who bit his bottom lip at the comment. This guy was obviously not the mastermind of the operation. "OK, Tony, here's the deal," Mathers said. "You need to start from the beginning and tell us how everything went down. Then you're going to tell us how many graves we are talking about and where they are."

Nuncio acquiesced. Mackenzie had recruited Nuncio about a month ago with the pauper grave scam. He would get a call from Mackenzie, and he would meet Mackenzie on the west end of the grounds, a usually isolated area of the cemetery.

"How did he transport the coffins?" Grissom asked.

"An old hearse. A couple of times, we had to jump start the thing, fill it with oil, you know."

"How many at a time?"

"Usually one. The last time he had two. He made two trips."

"How many in total?"

"I don't know, six or seven."

Mathers got up and talked to the Overton sheriff, who moved to get Nuncio up and handcuff him. Then Mathers spoke to Nuncio. "Tony, you're under arrest for desecration of property and robbery. You're going to show us where you dug those graves and give us a timeline of when they go there."

"All right. I'm cooperating here. If there's been any murders, that gets pinned on Lyle. I had nothing to do with that."

"We'll see about that, Tony," Mathers said.

"Mr. Nuncio, what did you do with the items you stole from these graves?" Grissom asked.

"In the back of my car. It wasn't much. Some jewelry. A watch here and there. They didn't even have credit cards or IDs, except one the last two guys. It's all in the back of my car," Nuncio said, with a sigh.

--

Before going to St. Joseph Cemetery, the Overton sheriff contacted a construction company about getting a backhoe to uncover the graves. Grissom called for members of the night shift to come help with processing what could be six to seven graves. He made sure that someone brought over the portable fingerprint analysis kit. There were parts of the coffins he wanted to get immediate results.

Mathers called his office to get officers to pick up Lyle Mackenzie. "The charge is parole violation. He was in contact with a former inmate. I'll be in with Grissom to question him after we finish in Overton."

By the time Warrick, Catherine, Nick and Greg got to the scene, the backhoe had uncovered seven graves. With the prospect of being blamed for seven murders, Nuncio's memory rivaled that of Rain Man. He not only remembered where he buried the coffins, but also the time frame in which Mackenzie delivered them.

Grissom told his team to focus on fingerprints on the handles of the coffins. Nuncio had told Grissom Mackenzie helped unload the coffins from the hearse. If that were true, fingerprints would offer a direct link between Mackenzie and the coffins. Nick went ahead and assumed that responsibility.

Another priority was identifying the victims. Unlike Flemming's body, the victims still had their fingerprints in tact, although the bodies were in various stages of decomposition. Catherine approached Grissom, who was recovering evidence from one of the coffins. Grissom walked to the two graves that Nuncio identified as burying about five days ago. "I'm thinking one of these men is George Cody and the other… maybe Paul Tran."

"Did you notice none of the victims were women?" Catherine asked in a sour tone.

Grissom looked at his friend and nodded his head in affirmation. "Now that you mention it, yes"

"Makes sense to me," Catherine said. "Thompson doesn't regard women while they are alive. Why bury them when they're dead? Just throw them away."

"We still have to prove Thompson is involved in these murders, and find a connection to your murders," Grissom said, sympathetically.

Mathers approached the two CSIs. "Other than Mackenzie's and Nuncio's involvement, we haven't linked all these bodies to the same murderer or murderers. But I think there is a way."

Grissom looked curiously at the detective. "You have a suggestion?"

"Check their shoes," Mathers said.

"You think there's something similar on the soles of their shoes?" Catherine asked, as Grissom made his way to one body.

"Well, Ms. Willows, it's like my mama always said, 'It's not what's on the outside that counts, but on the inside.'"

And with that comment, Grissom smiled and removed a folded piece of paper from a corpse's right shoe. "Look familiar to you, detective?"

Mathers and Catherine approached Grissom, who put the paper in Catherine's gloved hand. "Ezekiel, a fiery prophet," Mathers said.

**TBC**

**A/N: Reviews are most appreciated. Thanks for reading. **


	19. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: I do not owe CS

**Chapter 18**

While the biblical quote was different, three of the corpses contained the same quote which rang with spirit of the note found in Seamus Flemming's shoe: "And I will execute great vengeance upon them with furious rebukes; and they shall know that I am the LORD, when I shall lay my vengeance upon them."

In the shoe of a couple of the corpses was the same quote as found on Flemming. And it was scribed in the same familiar scrawl: "Therefore thus saith the Lord GOD; Because ye have spoken vanity, and seen lies, therefore, behold, I am against you, saith the Lord GOD."

The seventh corpse yielded a different quote from Ezekiel, which, unlike any of the other notes, was not of a vengeful nature: "And ye shall know that I am the LORD, when I have opened your graves, O my people, and brought you up out of your graves, and shall put my spirit in you, and ye shall live, and I shall place you in your own land: then shall ye know that I the LORD have spoken it, and performed it, saith the LORD."

But that could not be said about the quote found on the second corpse. Neither Mathers nor Grissom recognized the phrase from Ezekiel, but the quote's meaning was loud and clear: "And I will execute vengeance in anger and fury upon the heathen, such as they have not heard."

The coffins were numbered according to the timeline Nuncio had offered as to when they were buried. He had received the sixth and seventh coffins two days ago. Nuncio had robbed the body of the seventh victim of a wallet, which had a driver's license for George Cody. Grissom asked Greg to process that body and have him compare DNA and prints he gathered from Cody's residence.

Greg also worked on the sixth coffin, in which the victim seemed to be of Asian ethnicity. No identification was found on him, but Grissom speculated it might be Paul Tran. It was just a hunch, but fortunately, because Tran was a correctional officer, his prints would be in the system, and his body still had viable prints.

The other five bodies were still a mystery, but perhaps fingerprints and DNA might bring back a hit or two. Grissom approached Warrick, who was working with the corpse Nuncio estimated to be the second he was hired to put in the ground.

"Grissom. What do you think about this stain? It's not testing positive for blood."

As Grissom and Warrick examined the small, brownish patch, Mathers stood next to Catherine and was discussing things with her, until he said, "'Scuse me one second."

Out of the corner of both Grissom's and Warrick's eyes, they saw Mathers spit. They looked at each other and then the stain. Grissom spoke to Warrick, but couldn't conceal his grin.

"You know, if you wanted to check out that theory, you could smell the stain."

Warrick let out a laugh. "Hell no. That's what Hodges is for. And if it's tobacco, it's possible the person who left the stain left their DNA."

Grissom observed the body of the victim. While many of the other corpses were shot, this victim had his throat cut from ear to ear. Because of the brutality of the killing coupled with the note left on the corpse and the fact that he had been spit upon, Grissom theorized whoever killed this man did so with malice and grave intent.

The team had been processing for some time, when Nick's urgent "Boss!" had Grissom jogged towards Nick.

"I have some results from the prints I was able to get off the coffin handles."

Grissom called Mathers and Catherine to the Denali. Nick had the back of a vehicle opened, revealing an impressive and well-organized display of print samples from each of the coffins that impressed Mathers.

"Nice work," he said. "Get any hits?"

"There were a lot of smudges, and the second and fifth coffins had prints from an unknown. But I got definite hits on all of them from your friend there, Tony Nuncio, and from a Lyle Mackenzie, who served time at Corlin."

"We're familiar with Mackenzie," Mathers said. "Looks like we have something to talk about."

"This is good, very good, Nick. Thank you," Grissom said. "I'll need a print out of those positive IDs."

"You got it."

"Catherine," Grissom said. "Could you coordinate this end while Mathers and I have a chat with Mr. Mackenzie?"

"I think IDing the victims should be the top priority. We'll see you at the lab."

As Grissom talked to Catherine, Mathers received a call on his cellular. Grissom approached him, only to find Mathers in a particularly foul mood.

"Goddamn it! We might not be able to get anything from Mackenzie."

"He fled?" Grissom asked, a bit a worry in his face.

"No, throat slit and shot in the chest. Patrol stormed his house to find no one there. They didn't know if he left in a hurry or if he became a victim himself. Then they got a call that a late-night fisherman spotted a body in shallow water at a local fishing hole. Patrol is with the fisherman questioning him."

"Is Mackenzie dead?"

"Not yet. Look I'll drive you back here, so we can go together to the hospital in my truck. If we're going to get anything from him, we have to try it now."

**TBC**


	20. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: I owe nothing related to CSI. … OK, I own a few trading cards.

A/N: Have I mentioned lately how awesome CSIGeekFan and VRTrakowski are? How lucky am I that they beta this story? I don't thank them enough.

**Chapter 19**

With flashing lights and sirens, Mathers made it to Mesquite General in 20 minutes. The tension between the men created a haunting, silent atmosphere in the truck. Bound by a single mission, they headed through the emergency department and towards the in-take nurse. Mathers' status lent him the authority to roam inside the department, but he was stopped by a nurse before entering Mackenzie's room.

"I'm sorry, detective. You can't go in there. He suffered massive blood loss and his condition is precarious."

"We have to talk to him, ma'am. He might have information to lead us to a murderer. This is Dr. Gil Grissom, a criminologist from Las Vegas. He can collect evidence from Mr. Mackenzie and speak to him by himself."

"I don't think that would be wise. He is quite weak and he might not make it through."

"Then ma'am," Mathers pleaded. "This might be the last chance this man has to clear himself from heinous crimes we do not believe he committed."

The nurse looked at the two men. "You are a doctor, sir?"

Grissom thought a split-second before speaking. He wouldn't actually be lying if he confirmed the statement. "Yes."

"Very well, but I can only give you five minutes."

"That will be fine. Thank you."

After cleaning himself with disinfectant and putting on gloves, Grissom entered Mackenzie's room. The beeping of monitors rang in Grissom's ears as he broke an eerie, faux-serenity in the room. Although he was critically wounded, as a suspect Mackenzie had one hand restrained to the bed with a handcuff. Mackenzie's eyes were closed when Grissom entered, but when he felt a presence at his bedside, Mackenzie opened his eyes wide.

The man's expression was filled with fear, but changed as Grissom's features came into his view.

In a polite, but formal demeanor, Grissom asked, "Mr. Mackenzie? My name is Gil Grissom from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Do you remember me?"

Mackenzie offered a slight, tired nod. And to Grissom's surprise, he added a raspy, strained, "Yes."

"I'm here to ask you some questions."

Again, Mackenzie strained to speak, but this time he said, "I … failed."

Grissom's face turned to concern. "Lyle, who did this to you?"

"I … failed … him."

With each word, Mackenzie's voice became more and more faint. His face twisted in pain and his restrained hand fidgeted nervously.

"Lyle, did you fail Garrison Thompson?"

Lyle turned his head to look at Grissom. His eyes told Grissom, "Yes," but Mackenzie would not say a word.

"Lyle. We found all the graves. We've talked to Tony Nuncio. You have to come clean. Who did this to you?"

At this statement, Mackenzie's eyes became wide again, the fear showing even more. At this point, it seemed like Mackenzie tried to pray as he did in the interrogation room.

"Prayer. It's not working this time, is it?" Grissom asked in a very sympathetic tone.

Mackenzie flinched. "Always … works. … I … fail."

"Lyle, it depends who you are praying to," Grissom said, catching Mackenzie's attention and causing tears to slip out of the man's eye and down his swollen cheek.

"Lyle, let us help you. Who did this to you?"

Mackenzie's gaze became vacant.

"Lyle, were you one of his chosen ones?"

His vacant stare left, and its place was a forlorn expression of regret. Mackenzie mustered one word as a reply:

"Was."

"You were a chosen one," Grissom said as a clarification, not a question. "Is that why you were attacked? Because that body was left in the funeral home."

Mackenzie closed his eyes tight. Although there was a moment of silence and Grissom thought Mackenzie would refuse to answer, the wounded man replied, "Yes."

"Who came to punish you, Lyle?"

"His … chosen … one."

"Do you know who he is?"

"No."

"Lyle, can you describe him?"

"I'm … not … him."

With that Lyle reached his unrestrained hand toward Grissom, who was perplexed by the gesture. Grissom leaned forward and put his hand on the end of the bed railing. Mackenzie reached further toward Grissom's hand, the injured man's face contorting with pain. Although still confounded, Grissom put his hand in reach of Mackenzie, who grabbed two of Grissom's fingers.

An odd air of silence fell on the room as the suspect who was connected with some eight murders held two fingers of an investigator's hand. Uncharacteristically, Grissom slipped his hand into Mackenzie's grasp.

A few seconds felt like a lifetime. As Mackenzie looked from Grissom and then into the distance, the younger man's face seemed to flash many emotions — fear, trepidation, distrust and, then, serenity.

His voice was raspy but full of control as he spoke. "I … was … wrong. … Only … faith … matters. … Faith … in … God."

Mackenzie pulled his hand away, and his face, although still pained, seemed to slip into a haze of acceptance. He sighed and closed his eyes.

Grissom looked down to the ground and swallowed. He retrieved his kit and took photos of Mackenzie's injuries. Along with a slice at his throat, Mackenzie had been beaten. Curious marks were found on his cheek and on his upper forearm, possibly from a ring.

As Grissom continued to collect trace evidence from under Mackenzie's nails, the nurse came in.

"Dr. Grissom, we need to leave the patient to rest."

Silently, Grissom collected samples and equipment and left the room.

"Did you get anything from him?" Mathers asked as Grissom entered the hallway where the detective waited.

Grissom caught his breath. "He wouldn't name anyone. But he intimated that he was attacked by 'his' chosen one."

"He's got to mean Thompson's chosen one."

"He wouldn't confirm Thompson, but that's what I think, too."

"And who do you think Thompson's chosen one is?" Mathers asked.

"I have my idea," Grissom said tiredly. "Hopefully there is some evidence we got here that will answer the specific questions Mackenzie refused to answer on his own."

Grissom and Mathers left the hospital. Unlike the drive from the cemetery, Mathers drove at a less frantic pace to drop off Grissom to his vehicle.

"I'll check on the progress on processing the scenes at Mackenzie's house and at the lake," Mathers said. "I'll visit Mackenzie in the morning. He might be more willing to talk by then."

"Sounds good. Thanks for the ride," Grissom said and he got out of the truck with his kit.

"Sure thing. We'll be talking."

By the time they arrived back to the cemetery, Greg and Nick had left for the lab, and Warrick and Catherine were finishing the scene. Grissom helped the two complete their collection and load their SUV. The three left together. Warrick and Catherine in one car, and Grissom alone in his own Denali.

Although he had music playing, Grissom's mind wandered. In those silent moments, did Mackenzie realize Thompson was a con artist? Grissom wondered if Mackenzie found peace or was playing the CSI for a fool.

Grissom drove into the night. It had been almost two hours since he spoke with Mackenzie. When he parked his SUV in the lab lot, the music from his CD died down before he turned the ignition key to "off."

At that moment, the machines monitoring Lyle Mackenzie ceased the pace that held true for the past two hours. Where it had held a steady "beep, beep, beep," it now had a single note droning on without stopping.

The droning sound caused several nurses and a doctor to flank his bed. But the droning sound would not cease.

It simply died down when the machines were turned off.

**TBC**

A/N: I really like this chapter (am I allowed to say that?). I hope you enjoyed it. Thanks so much for stopping by to read. I hope you'll return for chapter 20.


	21. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI.

A/N: OK, so I know that Jacqui the fingerprint tech is not around. Trust me, the wonderful CSIGeekFan was quick to point that out in her beta. However, it is not my fault TPTB decided to put Jacqui on the landing party with Kirk, Spock and McCoy never to be heard from again. So, if you don't mind, (and I got approval from Dame Betameister mentioned above and Dame VRTrakowski) I would like to act like Jacqui never got on the landing party. It's not that I have something against Mandy. I like Mandy. She's cool. I just like Jacqui better. I hope I don't offend anyone for straying.

**Chapter 20**

It was after 1 a.m. when Grissom made it back lab. His first stop was with Jacqui, whom Grissom knew would be just _thrilled_ to see him.

"Oh God, it's you," Jacqui said looking tense and frazzled. "You cannot possibly have more prints for me."

Then Jacqui looked from her equipment and realized what she said. This was the night shift supervisor she was bashing. "Grissom, I'm sorry. I've been up to my eyeballs in smudges and ridges. …"

Grissom put up a hand and gave an ever-patient smile. This was Jacqui, after all, not Hodges. He could give her a little leeway, after all, they had been co-workers for more years than either of them would care to count.

"Jacqui, I was just hoping you might have a progress report for me before I address the team," Grissom said, ending his comment with a tired smile.

"OK. Progress is such an subjective term in this case," Jacqui said, trying to lighten the mood. "However, I have to say you got damn lucky with your corpses. I have six of the seven IDs from prints — one was the victim from the previous crime scene, ah," Jacqui searched her notes, "Oh, yeah, here it is. … According to the evidence Greg collected from his crime scene, the prints from one corpse matches prints from personal items from George Cody's residence. DNA has a sample to confirm. One victim is identified as a prison guard at Corlin Correctional — a Paul Tran. And there seems to be a theme with Corlin Correctional because four of the seven victims were previous residents of the prison." Jacqui handed Grissom the names of the four former inmates. "And because you're my favorite supervisor, I even included their intake and release dates from Chez Corlin."

"Well, Jacqui, that is quite some progress," Grissom said, impressed, but still willing to push the envelope. "And what else do you have for me?"

Jacqui leaned her arm on her desk. "Well, for the last corpse, I'm going to try the missing persons data-base, but DNA has the sample as well to go," Jacqui shifted to another set of prints. "Now, what I still have to do is look over prints from the coffins, but Nick said he already completed preliminary prints from … what was it … the handles?"

"Yes. What about the Flemming and Cody residences? Where are we with those prints?"

"I have a lot of smudges, but I think I have a good palm print I could try. That's just been pushed back with the emergence of other evidence."

"Go back to that and get those scenes done," Grissom said, gathering up all the reports that Jacqui was able to complete, and walking towards the door. Before leaving, Grissom grabbed the doorframe and said. "If you get anything…"

"I'll page you immediately."

"Thank you. If I get anything else for you, I'll bring it in right away."

Grissom left quickly. Since Jacqui couldn't react to that comment, she called out in the hallway, "You know, there's two other shifts who could process more prints!"

Without turning around, Grissom replied. "What fun would that be?!"

Grissom left for Brass' office at PD. He found Brass sitting at his desk and talking on the phone. Brass waved Grissom to sit down, which he did as he nursed a cup of coffee he picked up in the breakroom. Half a minute later, Brass ended his call.

"Well, I hear things have become complicated," Brass said.

"Seven bodies that most likely are connected to Flemming," Grissom replied.

"Yeah, but Nick was saying you had a lead with the prints found on the coffins."

"I just got back with talking to the suspect," Grissom said, his voice trailing off as he tiredly rubbed his forehead.

"And?" Brass asked breaking Grissom's daze.

"He wouldn't say who did it to him. He wouldn't verify it was Thompson who most likely asked for the beating. He didn't give us much." Dealing with dead ends always felt like wading through sludge, and Grissom's mind felt as sluggish as his legs at this moment. He took a swig of his coffee, and grimaced. Talk about sludge. "Did you get in touch with that captain in Raleigh?"

"Yeah, I did. Mike Johnson, 17 years on the force," Brass said. "He remembered Flemming. Said the poor guy kept chasing down leads that went nowhere. He was sad to hear that Flemming died. As a matter of fact, he had been trying to get in touch with Flemming about a week ago."

For Grissom, sometimes all it took was a curious, passing comment to dissipate the sludge. "He did?"

"The police had been investigating a prostitution ring with a connection to migrant farm worker camps. Flemming heard about it and wanted to research for a story. Flemming believed the women in the ring were being smuggled from Mexico and Guatemala, but there was no concrete proof and whoever was pimping the women and smuggling them in the country was well insulated," Brass explained. "But as Johnson was telling me all this, I couldn't understand how all this could connect to some con artist preacher."

"What did he say about that?"

"It was Flemming who speculated that there was an evangelical preacher who was conning the workers out of their money and putting their own women into human slavery," Brass said. "Johnson said he thought it was a stretch. Without victims coming forward or any viable suspects, the investigation was stalled."

"So he thought the preacher was working with another person?"

"Vice couldn't find any patterns from area prostitutes, although it was possible while one partner was preaching, another was pimping the women elsewhere."

Grissom thought about the information, which further explained any holes in Flemming's story. "Did this preacher work at many different camps or one…?"

"That is where there was a lot of dead ends, however, Flemming told Johnson he thought the preacher had somewhat of 'a base' at one camp with hundreds of workers for one of the area's top vegetable producer."

"Was it investigated?"

"Johnson went to the ranchero." Before he continued, Brass saw the curious look on Grissom's face, "I guess that's like the subcontractor who hires all the workers. He lives on the site and deals with the lowly workers so upper management doesn't have to. Anyway, the ranchero said he has noticed nothing unusual, and especially never noticed an American working as a preacher on site. He showed the investigators around. They couldn't find anything probative."

"Was this ranchero Latin or American?" Grissom asked.

"As a matter of fact, American, and he was the reason Johnson was trying to get a hold of Flemming."

Grissom's brows arched at this piece of info.

"Seems the ranchero, a Davis Heiden, has been missing for two weeks. The last anyone can remember of him, he was bound for Vegas for a business opportunity. They believed he landed at McCarron, but the trail died there. Never checked into his hotel."

"And it was never said who he was going to meet or where?"

"Nothing. So Johnson thought he would contact Flemming and see if there was a connection. I don't suppose you found anything about Heiden in Flemming's notes."

Grissom shook his head. "No, I don't remember anything. But maybe he wasn't coming to Vegas for Flemming. Maybe he was meeting an old business partner."

Before they could speak more, Grissom's phone rang. As he picked up the call, Catherine knocked on Brass' door and entered. Grissom stood to give her his seat and took to the corner for a bit of privacy.

"Talking about the Flemming case?" Catherine asked Brass.

"Yeah, I was just catching up with my call with Raleigh PD. What's that you got?" Brass said, gesturing to a long printout in Catherine's hand.

"Print out of partials from a maxi pad."

Brass made a face and let out a breath. That's one for Catherine. "Wow, I would never have guessed that."

"Well, out of curiosity, I went to see if a certain name would be on the list. And lo and behold, here is Garrison Thompson's name."

Brass leaned over his desk towards Catherine and whispered. "Just out of my own curiosity … was it a used pad?"

Catherine leaned in herself and whispered, "Not in the way you're thinking."

The two smiled, until Grissom approached them.

"Lyle Mackenzie is dead." There was a mixture of disappointment and tension in Grissom's voice. "That was Mathers on the phone. Someone in his department is still processing Mackenzie's apartment."

"You're not going back out there now, are you?" Catherine questioned.

"No. There's too much for us to do here. Mathers is going to courier a CD of photos from the scene in the morning. What do you have there?"

Grissom's reaction to Catherine's evidence was different than that of Brass. "Isn't that a coincidence?" he said, regarding the fact Thompson's prints were among the hundreds of possibilities.

"I thought so too," Catherine said. "I would love to get a warrant for Thompson's DNA to see if it matches any of the semen left on the pad or on various parts of the victim."

"Various parts?" Grissom asked, his mind felt foggy. He didn't remember that tidbit of info.

"There was semen found on the pad along with vaginal fluid, but there was also another contribution of semen in the woman's nasal passageway and throat. Different DNA."

"Did you tell me that?"

"How the hell am I supposed to remember? Is it your DNA?"

"No."

"Great. One person down, 500,000 in greater Las Vegas to go."

Brass cut in. "OK, kids. Humor an old man. How is any of this connecting to one another? I mean how do you make the jump from Flemming's death to Mackenzie's death to the death of three prostitutes to the deaths of seven corpses who may have nothing to do with one another? And then how do you tie that in to a prison preacher who has the airtight alibi of being in prison the entire time all these deaths occurred?"

"Well," Grissom said, with a straight face, "when you put it like that, it might seem difficult."

"Gil, come on," Brass said. "You don't even have murder weapons."

"That's not true," Grissom said. "We have one murder weapon."

They both turned and stared at him in astonishment.

"Flemming's coffin. That's what killed him. It's a murder weapon. That's what led us to Nuncio, who led us to Mackenzie, who was hired by someone to bury seven coffins of similar construction to that of the murder weapon of Seamus Flemming. We know one of the seven victims was the neighbor of Flemming, and five of the other victims were connected to Corlin Correctional, where Garrison Thompson currently resides. And Thompson is a man Flemming investigated and had contact with days before he died. Catherine's three young women all had their throats cuts much in the same manner as some of the corpses in the coffins, a theory we need Doc Robbins to corroborate, and one of them wore a maxi pad while not menstruating that has a partial print that matches Thompson. And the last known citing of the woman is at Corlin Correctional, where she visited an inmate who, according to the warden, is joined at the hip with Thompson."

Brass and Catherine both looked at each other. It was a pretty good synopsis for 40 seconds, but Grissom wasn't done.

"What we need now, is try to connect Mackenzie's murder to all this."

"And why murder the girls?" Catherine added. "If they truly are connected at all."

"Well, in Mackenzie's case he was a liability, right?" Brass asked.

"Yeah," Grissom agreed, recalling his conversation with the dying man. "He said he screwed up with Flemming's coffin. I asked him if that was the reason he was punished and he said, 'Yes.'"

"And we have no evidence he committed the crimes himself?"

"We don't have evidence that he did or did not."

"So, assuming he is not a serial killer, it's possible his murder was to sever any more ties to the really killer."

"OK," Catherine said, "so for a moment, let's assume Thompson is somehow the mastermind behind all this. How did he get messages out of the prison to direct who gets killed?"

"Visitors. There were a lot of people who support Thompson. He was even allowed offsite from the prison to speak at New Haven Youth Center. And maybe that's where the women come in?" Grissom speculated. "One of our female vics was at Corlin before she died and possibly stashed contraband into the prison with a maxi pad. Maybe she also leaked messages out."

"That's a lot of ifs," Brass said.

"True," Grissom agreed.

"Have you been to Archie's lab about the results to the tapes?" Catherine asked

"Not yet. But I want to," Grissom said.

"I think we should review those. If there is a connection between visitors or the women or something, maybe we could have a talk with one of Thompson's prison buddies."

"You mean BDs," Grissom said, again with a straight face. "They're BDs. Bad Dudes. Come on, Catherine. Get with the program."

Catherine rolled her eyes as she and Grissom left Brass' office, but Grissom turned back to ask one more thing. "Jim, when you talked to the Raleigh officer, did he mention if Heiden's prints were in CODIS under missing persons?"

"I didn't ask him, but I can find out."

"Thank you."

**TBC**


	22. Chapter 21

A/N: Mucho, many thanks go to Chauncey (MSCSIFANGSR) for reading this story over and giving me support and pointers, including reminding me of a GSR milestone that I would have been remiss to disregard.

**Chapter 21**

Grissom made his way back to the lab. Knowing there was a lot of key evidence to discuss with Catherine and Warrick, much of which needed Archie's analysis, Grissom asked the four to meet in Archie's lab. Warrick had been investigating the cell phone and iPod evidence, and Grissom wanted Archie to help with some of the audio files. A piece of information from an audio file Warrick had extracted might help Catherine with her investigation. And Grissom wanted both Warrick and Catherine to look at surveillance footage Archie had been working on since yesterday.

"Archie, can you please first tell us about the surveillance from the funeral home?"

"You'd mentioned something about garbage pick-up, and there was something weird about it," Archie said pulling up particular footage. "I used the tapes that covered the two-week period to confirm that garbage pick-up for the funeral home is generally around 8 a.m. Tuesdays. I checked with Virgin Valley Disposal, and they confirmed that is the day for pickup at Hoffman's funeral home."

Archie keyed up different footage. "OK, that video I just showed you of the garbage being picked up was from a Tuesday morning. Now, look what we see at 1 a.m. on that Wednesday."

All three CSIs leaned into the monitor to see a garbage truck pull up in front of Hoffman Funeral Home's back door. The truck had been maneuvered in front of the dumpster in such a way that made it difficult to see what was going on within or around the truck, especially on the passenger side. But what was obvious was that the truck never touched the dumpster. It simply stayed there for approximately three minutes and then left.

"In this two week period, I noticed the truck coming at various times in the early morning hours on four different days. And at about 3 to 4 a.m. on all of those days, you can see a hearse driving up to the back door and then driving away. But with the angle of the camera and the way the hearse was maneuvered, you can't see what is going on."

"So," Grissom began, "taking into consideration some of the information provided by Mackenzie and Nuncio, perhaps the strange garbage pick-ups were actually drop-offs and then Mackenzie used an old hearse to transport what was dropped off with Nuncio at St. Joseph Cemetery in Overton."

"But we have nothing here really to confirm it," Catherine said.

Archie had been changing tapes and spoke up. "Hold on. That is the footage from one camera. Grissom gave me two different sets of tapes. Now this set is only for a recent five-day period, but we get a different look."

Archie keyed up the tape with a time stamp that read three days before Flemming's body was found. "OK, this is the only time on the tape when I saw a questionable pick-up, and it jives with the time on the other surveillance tapes. It was grainy, but I was able to get some good screen shots."

While the previous footage was taken from an angle across the street from the funeral home from the south, in which the dumpster was in the foreground blocking much of what could be seen, the second footage was taken from across the street from the north of the funeral home. From that angle, the dumpster did not block what was happening outside the back door of the funeral home.

"It's still difficult to see what is happening on the passenger side of the truck, but you can see that two people emerge from the passenger side of the truck. One opens the door to the funeral home and brings out some wheelie thing. Then the two extract something from the truck."

Archie stopped the footage for a minute.

"There's our coffins," Warrick said. "Did you notice that guy didn't even use a key to open the door? It was just unlocked for him."

"When I first spoke with Mackenzie, all he said was he would get a call, and then he lawyered up," Grissom said. "There was no forced entry from the back door of the funeral home. Mackenzie probably got the call and then disabled the alarm and unlocked the door for whoever did the drop-off."

"Can you get any details on the guys, Archie?" Catherine asked, as she and the other looked at two men with dark, long sleeved hoodies that effectively covered their bodies and faces.

"I can't get anything from these two guys but check this out." Archie started the footage again, and zoomed into the driver's side. The window of the door was down and the driver dangled his arm out the window. Once again Archie stopped the footage. "I recognized the tattoo on the guy's arm from one of your BDs, Grissom."

Already leaning in, the trio took in the image of a cross on fire. Catherine put her hand on Archie's shoulder, and spoke to Warrick and Grissom, standing on either side of her. "That's the tattoo from my murdered girls. Tell me you have a print out of that for me?"

Archie spun around in his chair giving Catherine an 8x10. "I didn't know you were into ink?"

"This kind of ink, yes."

"What about his face, Archie?" Grissom asked.

"OK," Archie said, starting the footage again, and zoomed in to see a more panoramic view of the scene. "Check out here, one of the passengers is calling out to the driver, who gets out of the truck. He's pulling on his hoodie, but … , "Archie stops his tape. "… you can see his face here. It's not a glamour shot, but you can definitely recognize features." Archie handed Grissom the photo, as the team continued to watch the film.

"They must have been busy," Warrick said. "They dropped off three coffins on this visit. But they still got this done in five and a half minutes. Did you get a look at the hearse, too?"

Archie fast-forwarded the tape to 3 a.m. that morning. "As a matter of fact, yes. And I was able to secure the driver's face. Again, not a glamour shot, but…" He handed Grissom another photo.

"Lyle Mackenzie," Grissom said. The team viewed Mackenzie getting out of the hearse and run into the back door. He came out a short time later with a coffin and loaded it up in the hearse. He returned the coffin trolley inside, closed and locked the door.

"He comes back about an hour and a half later and does the same thing again," Archie said.

"This is excellent, Archie," Grissom said.

"There is one more thing," Archie went back and rewound to a point where the team saw the garbage truck again. "The license plate looks so mangled and dirty, you can see anything on it. I tried. I don't even know if it's a legitimate plate."

"Well, there aren't a lot of cops out there to stop a garbage truck for that violation," Warrick snickered.

"No doubt," Archie agreed. "But there is this logo on the side of the truck and it does not match Virgin Valley Disposal or any company that serves in Clark County. I did some research; it's a logo of a disposal company from Arizona that went out of business in the 1970s."

Archie handed some printed information to Grissom. The company's president, Coogan Lambert, had sold to his company to a large conglomerate in 1978. _"I wonder what happened to the trucks when he sold the company?"_ Grissom asked himself.

"Archie," Catherine asked. "What do you have on the prison surveillance?"

Archie changed his tapes so he could cue evidence from the visitations at the prison. Catherine took out the prison logs and notes she had taken when examining the evidence. "Garrison Thompson got a variety of personal visits in the past month — his attorney, that pastor from New Haven …"

"Malcolm Banscomb?" Grissom clarified.

"Right, and Seamus Flemming and Dennis Haggerty," Catherine said. "Now, as far as Thompson's crew …"

"BD's. Bad dude," Grissom and Archie said in unison.

Although Catherine once again rolled her eyes at the duo, Warrick couldn't help but laugh. "I can't believe I just heard that."

Archie let out a chuckle and put his fist out for Grissom, leading Warrick to shake his head. "No, no, no, man. Don't be pounding fists with Grissom. That's just wrong." Archie shrugged his shoulders and put his fist down.

"Arch, I think the only 'BD' with visitors was Jack Donahue," Catherine said.

"Right, three visits in the past month. All different women, at least that's what I think. And, if you notice, they don't even look like they're talking."

Archie's observation seemed obvious. Jack Donahue would sit at a table waiting for his visitor. The woman would sit down across from him, and simply sit there for 10 minutes. "Look who's over in the upper right hand corner," Archie said.

It was Garrison Thompson. "According to the logs, when Donahue had his three visitors, Thompson also had a visitor that day."

"Yeah, but it look like he acknowledged his visitor," Warrick said, and as the video unfolded, Warrick noticed something else. "Hey, Archie, hold up. Let's look at that again. Check out Thompson's reaction when the girl gets up."

Archie rewound, and the foursome watched as the girl who was visiting Donahue got up and went to the guard, and disappeared in the hallway. "OK, let me rewind that and zoom so we can see Thompson," Archie said.

When the girl stood up, Thompson's gaze strayed from his visitor to the girl. He even leaned back in his chair as she went to talk to the guard. About a minute after the girl went to the hallway, Thompson said goodbye to his visitor. He then went to the guard, who simply nodded his head. Thompson then disappeared in the hall.

"Look familiar?" Warrick said to Archie.

"Rendezvous."

Warrick turned to Grissom and Catherine, as Archie worked on the footage again, trying to get a view of the hallway. "Gris, remember that case where the woman had a relationship with the convict and she ended having sex with an inmate while she had a visitation?"

"Yeah, OK."

"Footage looked exactly like this," Warrick said, but Archie interjected.

"Yeah, but it looks like Thompson understood the value of privacy," Archie said. "I can't get anything here to show the two of them were together back there."

As they waited for either Thompson or the woman to materialize, Grissom's mind wandered back to the case Warrick referred to. Sara and Nick found the semen in the car that helped indict the guy, but something else happened that day — the lab explosion. Grissom remembered seeing Sara sitting on the curb looking hurt and lost. It was the first time he called her "honey." She asked him to dinner later, and Grissom cringed when he thought how cowardly he was. Maybe things would be different now, if he had said, "yes" then.

Or maybe not. He was more in love now than ever. But he was also more lonely now than ever. Would Sara ever come back?

"Looks like she came back," Warrick said, breaking Grissom's concentration. A faint hue of red crept up his face as he realized Warrick was talking about the moment on the video when the girl materialized alone and went back to Donahue's table. Grissom put his head down and coughed, hoping no one would notice.

"Cath, what do you think about the girl? Does she look like one of your women?" Warrick asked.

At that, Archie paused the tape to get a close-up of the woman. Catherine took out her other two photos and compared them to the image on the screen. "Grissom, I think we might a match with our first victim. What do you think?"

Grissom nodded as he saw the photo. "I think you're, right."

"Cath, did you check the names on the visitor logs to see if the girls had any priors or were included in missing persons?" Warrick asked.

"I checked into that. They must have used aliases. Nothing came up at all for the women's names."

The tape continued and about a minute after the girl came out, Thompson came out and walked right in front of the guard. Catherine saw Grissom concentrating on the video. "What do you see?"

"I think I found another match," Grissom answered. "Archie, could you get a close-up of the guard, please?"

"That looks like one the corpses we found," Warrick said.

"I think so, too. Paul Tran," Grissom said. "Archie we need to check if that guard was covering the visitation room each time Donahue and Thompson had visitors at the same time."

"Before you do that, Arch, rewind that again," Warrick said. "I'm wondering why Thompson walked so close to the guard when he came back."

From their perspective it might look like Thompson had brushed his own hand with the guard's, but once again, Archie couldn't get the video proof at the angle the camera was set.

The team checked the footage, and found similarities not only in the women who visited and the photos of Catherine's murdered girls, but also in the methodology of the visits. The girls would go to Donahue's table, do and say nothing, until they would get up, talk to the guard and disappear down a hallway. One minute later, Thompson would say goodbye to his visitor, get up and leave for the hallway. They materialized later, followed a minute later by Thompson, who brushed next to the same guard — Paul Tran — each time he left the hallway.

"What do you think they all did in that hallway?" Archie asked.

"Sex, drugs, money," Catherine said. "I'm sure a little of everything."

"We need Tran's financials," Grissom said. "And schedule a talk with Jack Donahue."

**TBC**

A/N: Thanks to all who have read this and to those who have reviewed. Next update in two days.


	23. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI

**--**

**Chapter 22**

Grissom passed out sandwiches and chips to their respective diners as he, Catherine and Warrick sat in the break room. As Grissom grabbed a couple bottles of water and a few sodas from the refrigerator, Warrick turned around in his chair to take the cans from Grissom's hands.

"Hey Gris, did you get a chance to listen to that CD I made?" Warrick asked.

"Yes," Grissom answered, opening can of soda. "It sounded like it was the last recording Seamus Flemming made before he died. What did you think about it?"

"Pretty intense," Warrick said. "It was one of the audio files I found on his iPod."

Grissom turned to Catherine and explained the tape Warrick and he were talking about. "There was one entry that I think relates to your case."

"Really?"

"Flemming believed Thompson was somehow connected with prostitution, much like he was in North Carolina. On the tape, Flemming mentioned he sought out a prostitute named 'Angela,' who he got into a DV shelter."

"A domestic violence shelter?" Catherine surmised. "Who was this guy? He hires a prostitute and then takes her to a shelter?"

Grissom shrugged his shoulders and arched an eyebrow at the statement. "I'm not sure what his motive might have been. On the tape, he seemed reconciliatory, apologetic for letting the story get away from him. Maybe getting a girl to a domestic violence shelter was an act of contrition."

"Well, how would we even find this Angela? If that is her real name."

"I don't know if Flemming would have been familiar enough with this area to know where a domestic violence shelter is," Grissom said "But, his friend Maggie probably would. She said she is a grant writer for a non-profit agency. She might have connections to shelters like that."

"It's worth a try asking her," Catherine said. "She might be able to identify the girls."

"And she might be able to identify Victor Chapute, who Flemming believed is Thompson's outside source and accomplice," Grissom said. He then turned back to Warrick. "What else did you find on the iPod?"

"It looks like he used it like a mini hard drive," Warrick said. "One of the things on there was Audacity, which is a sound editing program." Warrick took some papers from a file folder he brought with him to the break room. "Here is a listing of the documents and sound files I found on the iPod."

Grissom put on his glasses and read the paper. "I recognize a lot of these files from the items I gathered at the Dominguez residence," Grissom said. "But I had a lot of problems listening to some of the audio files."

"You probably were listening to raw audio before Flemming enhanced it with his audio program," Warrick said. "Some of the audio files were interview notes, personal notes, but there was one interview I needed some help with."

Warrick fished Flemming's iPod from an evidence bag and cued a piece of audio. "This was marked as an interview that someone did for Flemming," Warrick looked at his notes. "According to Flemming's notes about the audio, the girl on the tape doing the interview is Lydia Ortiz. His notes said she agreed to talk with El Rey del Fuego and his contact to weed out information about a possible prostitute ring."

"That sounds dangerous," Catherine said.

"Yeah, I thought so too."

"Maybe Lydia did this without Flemming's knowledge and gave him the tape afterwards?" Grissom suggested.

"Well, whatever the case, I couldn't get anything off the audio because everyone is speaking Spanish. I asked Vega who would be best to do a translation, and he suggested Officer Elena Sanderson," Warrick said as he extracted two sets of papers and handed one each to Grissom and Catherine. "This is the transcript of the conversation."

Warrick watched as the two read over the notes.

"Grissom, why do you think Flemming might not have known about this interview ahead of time?" Warrick asked.

"Flemming believed these men were dangerous, and he said in his tape that Lydia would do anything to bring down El Rey del Fuego," Grissom said. "I remember listening to a piece of audio from a cassette that I found among Flemming's research. The sound quality was bad, but I could recognize Spanish words. The other audio I found seemed to be digital. Some of it was scratchy, but not totally unrecognizable like the cassette."

"If Flemming had led this woman to talk with those men, at the very least, he would have made sure she had the best equipment possible, so the interview wasn't a waste," Catherine said.

"Exactly," Grissom said.

"Well, the recording had a marker on it that shows he put it through the Audacity program, so that would account for my copy being cleaner than your original," Warrick said. He then took his sandwich wrapper and soda, and threw them basketball style into the waste basket.

The team looked at the transcript together. There were three voices identified on the tape, according to the transcript: Female Voice (FV); Male Voice No. 1 (MV1) and Male Voice No. 2 (MV2). The interview started with only two voices (FV and MV1). It started with an introduction, in which the woman simply said her name was "Maria." She asked if she was talking with a "Victor." Although he never answered in the affirmative — instead saying, "Who wants to know?" — when "Maria" said she needed to talk to Victor to ask about offering services to El Rey del Fuego, he told her to meet her at a location in 10 minutes.

At that point the transcripts read the tape sounded like it stopped and started again. At the point it began, with "Maria" saying, "Ah. I finally meet you in person." A new male voice, identified as MV2, was heard saying, "I have little time woman. There should be a good reason to seek me."

The transcript then read as followed:

FV: I seek employment.

MV2: None is offered.

FV: I believe you need service. I am willing and I am experienced.

MV2: Why do you come to me?

FV: You offer protection for woman who serve you. I am need of that.

MV2: Protection from who?

FV: From a previous employer. From immigration. I know you allow women to help serve your cause. I am only asking to provide service and receive protection. It is more than I can do for myself.

The transcript states there is a silence and what sounds like shuffling feet.

MV2: You are experienced?

FV: Very.

MV2: (laughter) I need to know how experienced.

FV: I can show you.

MV2: (laughter) No. You will show me.

FV: I only need time to… let someone know I am leaving for … another employer. I only need two hours.

MV2: (laughter) You will meet Victor in two hours. He will take you to me.

FV: Yes.

The transcript stateed there is muffled voices and shuffling feet. And then a break as if the tape is turned off.

"So, do you think she made the rendezvous?" Catherine asked.

Grissom's faced showed great concentration. "I don't know. Warrick, can you cue the tape to where the second male voice was laughing?"

"Sure," Warrick said.

He did so and both Catherine and Grissom looked startled and glanced at each other. Catherine spoke first, pointing her finger at the same time. "That's Thompson's laugh."

"Yeah," Grissom agreed. "It's difficult to make a match since he's speaking another language, but that was definitely the laugh we heard from him in the prison interrogation room. Warrick, take this down to Archie. Is there an interview on there of Flemming with Garrison Thompson at the prison?"

"Yeah, yeah, there is," Warrick said.

"We need Archie to do a voice comparison for Thompson. If he needs the originals, they are available."

"I'll see what he needs to do this," Warrick said, as he gathered up his file folder and made a beeline to Archie's lab.

Grissom sat there contemplating as he finished drinking his soda. Catherine, on the other hand, got up and paced a little with her hands behind her, massaging her lower back. She suddenly grabbed the remaining sandwich wrappers, crumpled them up and tossed them away, in a bit of a huff.

"I don't see how this gets us closer to anything," she said.

Grissom continued to look straight ahead, but brought his soda to the table lifting it slightly up and down as he absentmindedly tapped the faux wood tabletop with the can. "That was Thompson's voice and he mentioned Victor. It's small, but it's promising."

"But, Gil, it doesn't prove anything."

Grissom stood up, and looked at Catherine. "It gives us a start." He then turned around slightly and tossed his can in the trash. "I think at this point, we need to look at Paul Tran's financials."

"Then?"

"By that time it will be normal waking hours and we can ask Maggie Dominguez about the domestic violence shelter."

"There has to be something else," Catherine said.

As if on cue, Grissom's beeper went off. Grissom pulled the pager from his waist and looked at the message. It was from Jacqui.

"Perhaps we do have something else," Grissom said.

**TBC**

A/N: OK, so how is it going? Let me know. I know this is a short chapter, but the next update will be two chapters at one time. If you get a chance to review, please do so. Or just return for the next chapters. Thanks so much for reading. :-)


	24. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: Guess what I don't own

Disclaimer: Guess what I don't own? CSI, that's what.

Chapter 23

The palm print found at George Cody's residence yielded a result — Fred Lambert of Las Vegas. Grissom and Brass worked on getting a warrant, hoping to serve it as soon as possible, but they knew it would take time. Catherine and Warrick left the lab to search Paul Tran's residence.

"If you get a call about the warrant, let us know," Catherine said. "Tran's residence is 10 minutes from Lambert. We want to be there too."

Grissom agreed and walked to his office. He could feel his tension rising. Although he wouldn't agree with her in the break room, Catherine was right — the team had found nothing to prove that Garrison Thompson was involved with anything illegal. Hunches were everywhere, but hard, true evidence was scant. Grissom hated this feeling — sure of someone's guilt without a damn thing to prove it.

And because of that, Grissom wanted to blow up.

He knew this feeling. Hell, he felt it only a few days ago when he and Warrick had words. How long ago was that? Three days? It seemed like a lot longer than 72 hours. The thought only fatigued Grissom further.

He let out a long breath and got up to pace, and draw himself out of his mood. He had to remain focused and not lose his temper. There was still so much to do. He sat down on his couch, and fought the urge to lie down. "Focus, Grissom," he thought to himself. Shower. Sleep. Eat. Work. Repeat. He had finished eating and was at work. If he could hold on a little longer, there would be time to shower and sleep.

But now, Grissom needed to focus, and it wasn't easy. The interviews spun in his head along with every twist and turn that had surfaced in the case since he first saw that bug-infested coffin three days ago. "Come on. What's next?" Grissom thought.

Before any more tension could haunt him, Grissom placed his hands on his knees and lifted himself off the couch. He grabbed some items in a file folder and marched to DNA.

Wendy had her head in a microscope when Grissom arrived. "Hello," he said, trying at best to be friendly and not show he has had maybe 14 hours of sleep in the past 72 hours.

His presence took Wendy by surprise. "Oh, God. Sorry. Scared me."

"Sorry. I need to get what you have for me regarding the Flemming case and the seven dead bodies?"

Perhaps it was nerves or perhaps Wendy realized Grissom's mood, despite his efforts to hide a restless demeanor, that caused Wendy to mimic her supervisor's no-nonsense reserve. "OK, first you got the positive results identifying George Cody, right?"

"Yes, I did."

"Hodges was with me when that information came in. I figured he could have a chance to pass along news to you," Wendy said.

Nothing like a knock on Hodges to bring a chuckle out of Grissom. "Well, what else do we have?"

"Your John Doe No. 2 found in Overton, I didn't find a DNA match to him for an identification."

"Brass is looking into a missing person from Raleigh, N.C. His name is Davis Heiden. If we do get a DNA sample from the missing person, I need you to use that sample against our John Doe ASAP. Check with Captain Brass about that. He might have you call Raleigh yourself."

Wendy wrote notes as she listened. "OK, I'll be sure to do that. That leads us to a brownish stain on body No. 2. Hodges confirmed it is chewing tobacco, a chemical match to Skoal."

"Any DNA tags in the saliva left?"

"Yes, but no IDs in the system. But if you give a comparison sample, I can see if it matches."

"Good. What else?"

"I was just working on samples from the evidence you brought this evening. The scrapings under the nails did have viable epithelia for DNA. Although it was not the victim's DNA under the nails, nothing on the system popped up. But," Wendy went and picked up a file she has for Catherine. "These are results of DNA from Catherine's case," she took out a sheet and gave it to Grissom. "Two of the victims had DNA contributions under their fingernails. I was processing that DNA when your bodies were found. I took samples from each corpse to help with identification, and one of corpse's DNA matched the contribution found on the two victims."

"Do we know who?" Grissom asked clearly intrigued.

"I asked Jacqui about prints and she said the person was identified as Paul Tran."

"The guard," Grissom thought. It made sense. He was the one who saw the women and might have been paid to get rid of them once Thompson got what he wanted.

"There's more," Wendy said, clearly more relaxed from when Grissom first entered the room.

Grissom offered an arched eyebrow.

"I identified two sources of semen from Catherine's third victim. One contribution was left in the vaginal cavity and another from the mouth and nasal passage. The DNA from under Lyle Mackenzie's fingernails matches the DNA profile of the semen contribution from the female victim's mouth and nasal passage."

At this Grissom felt a small weight of his dark mood lift, just slightly. "Is that right?"

"Interesting, isn't it?"

"But you don't have a name for the DNA?"

"No, not yet," Wendy said. "But let me know if you find me the match to compare."

"Thank you Wendy. Exceptional work," Grissom said with a smile, before retrieving his beeping pager. "Wendy, you need to relay that information to Catherine right away. I'll let you know when I have more evidence." And Grissom turned to leave for the morgue to answer Doc Robbins' page.

--

"Oh good," Doc Robbins said as Grissom entered the morgue. "I wasn't sure if you were still around tonight." Robbins looked at Grissom, who sported a terse expression.

"Looks like you've been burning the midnight oil on this," Robbins said. "In that case, I'll be brief."

"That's OK, Al. I think extra time in the morgue won't hurt," Grissom said, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly.

Al laughed. "Ah, I understand. It's amazing how the quiet, cold atmosphere of my office seems to give you respite," Robbins said. "It's a little creepy, too."

The two men shared a laugh. From anyone else, that might have been insulting to Grissom.

Robbins gave the run down. Not all of the autopsies had not been completed, but he wanted to update Grissom about an observation he had made while working on body No. 2 — John Doe. While the other victims had been shot, this victim was sliced at the throat from ear to ear. "COD for this victim was exsanguination, as you probably predicted, and the slice was deep and thorough," Robbins said. "Catherine asked me to take a close look at the wound and try to compare it to the wound of her three young victims."

"What do you think?" Grissom said.

"It would seem whoever killed these four people used the same or similar knife," Robbins said. "My guess is a serrated hunting knife. The only difference is a speculation. I would say Catherine's Jane Doe No. 1 and this John Doe were killed by a left-handed assailant. Now, Gil, we've talked about this before about being able to assume handedness of killers…"

"Al, the last time you theorized this, you were correct. In any case, you noticed something similar and different between the wounds."

"That's right," Robbins said with a nod.

"Well, do you have anything else for right now, even though you are not done?"

"I can give you COD and a rough TOD for your first corpse."

Grissom looked at notes from Jacqui's findings. "OK, we are talking about Max Jenkins."

"If you say so. Mr. Jenkins died of a single gunshot wound to the chest. A 9 mm bullet was extracted and sent to ballistics. Approximate time of death is 16 days ago."

Grissom looked through Jacqui's notes again. "That coincides from the day he was released from prison."

Robbins shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe he should have stayed inside."

"What about a TOD for John Doe?"

"I'm suspecting 14 days ago."

"That coincides with Davis Heiden's arrival in Vegas," Grissom thought. Before he could comment or ask any other questions, Grissom's phone rang. It was Brass.

"I need to take this, Al. You'll give me or Catherine an update?"

"Absolutely," Robbins said, turning his attention once again to the body on the slab. He barely heard Grissom answering Brass' call as the CSI left the morgue.

--

"Gil, we got the warrant for Lambert," Brass said.

"I'm in the morgue and on my way up," Grissom said. "I'll grab my kit and we'll go together. I'll call Catherine and Warrick to meet us there."

"Good, I'll meet you in front of the lab," Brass said.

Grissom called Catherine who answered on the first ring. "What'cha got Gil?"

"We have a warrant for Fred Lambert. Did Wendy call you about the DNA off your victims?"

"Yeah. Tran's place has been cleared out, but we found empty envelopes in a hollowed out Bible."

"He was hiding, what? Money? Drugs?"

"No trace of drugs in the envelopes, and after hearing from Hodges, it could be have held money for payoff. Thompson probably hired Tran to kill the women after their 'service' was completed. I'm hoping the envelopes might have Thompson's prints on it," Catherine summarized.

"Listen Catherine, Brass and a couple of cruisers are coming to Lambert's compound, if you and Warrick want to stay there…"

"Hell no," Catherine said resolutely. "I still have one victim with two unknown DNA sources. That evidence might be at Lambert's compound."

"OK," Grissom said. "We'll meet you there."

--

Lambert's residence was actually on an old salvage yard on the outskirts of the city. It was family-owned properly, once used as a warehouse by his father, Bill Lambert, for his many business dealings. A 15-foot high chain link fence made up the perimeter of the compound. It was still dark during these early morning hours. Catherine's Denali, two police cruisers and Brass' Dodge Magnum were parked at the entrance. A policeman broke the lock on the fence gate and opened it so the cars could pass through. Without sirens or flashing lights, the cars made their way inside the fence, parking among many broken down vehicles some 30 feet from Lambert's front door. The CSIs and police officers went to the door. Brass knocked and identified the crew. "Fred Lambert?! Las Vegas Police Department! We need you to come outside please!"

Hearing nothing on the other side of the door, Brass gestured for the officers to draw their guns and proceed to enter. Two were told to take the rear while two would enter the front with Brass. The CSIs, all of them wearing their vests over their short-sleeved shirts, knew to wait for an all clear before entering. But both Warrick and Catherine were ready to draw their own firearms.

After kicking in the door, the police entered and searched for Lambert. Finding no one, Brass gave the CSIs the OK to enter. Once inside, Warrick and Catherine looked around, and Grissom spoke to Brass. "There's a building about 100 yards from here. Lambert could be in there."

"I'll go with two uniforms and check it out," Brass said. "I'll radio you if we find him."

The two remaining officers split up to take watch of the front and back entrances. While Warrick checked the bedroom, Grissom went around the house until he joined Catherine in the kitchen. He found her standing in front of a large bay window and examining items on a dining room table. She started talking to Grissom, but out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of movement outside the window.

Grissom quickly grabbed Catherine and pulled her down, the sound of shattered glass piercing their ears as they hit the floor. Grissom covered Catherine's body with his own as a gunman outside sprayed bullets inside the kitchen. Grissom tried to get up a bit so he could drag himself and his friend to the hallway.

The sound of Brass' voice boomed after several gunshots. "FREEZE LAMBERT! YOU'RE SURROUNDED! DROP YOUR WEAPON! I SAID, 'DROP IT!'" The sound of a gun hitting the hard desert soil was followed by several sets of running footsteps. "Hands behind your back. Don't resist, goddammit." Brass was heard once again. "Mirandize him."

"I was protecting my own damn property, you mother fuckers!"

"Read him his rights and get him in the fucking car," Brass said.

Warrick ran to the kitchen yelling Cath's name. He found Catherine and Grissom in the hallway, and he helped them as they slowly got up. Catherine had been surprised when Grissom grabbed her, but she seemed more composed now, as she brushed herself free of the window glass and floor dirt. By this time, Brass had also found the CSIs in the house.

"Everyone OK?" Brass said nervously.

"Yeah, you guys OK?" Warrick asked, putting a hand on Catherine's arm.

"Fine," Catherine said, taking a big breath. "Thank God this guy lost those extra 10 pounds. Jeez, Gil, give a girl a warning when you jump her."

Grissom looked at her perplexed, still trying to catch his breath and stop shaking. Even though Warrick and Brass snickered softly, it still took Grissom a few seconds to realize Catherine was making light of the situation. Once he made that connection, he let out a sigh. "I apologize for almost crushing you, Catherine."

"OK. This time," she replied, brushing a few pieces of glass from Grissom's hair, causing him to take two steps back and shake his head a bit and move his hands through his hair to remove glass shards.

"Lambert's in our custody and in the back of the squad car. I'm going to have him booked for attempted murder," Brass said. "Why don't you guys come and see the workshop we found."

TBC

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.


	25. Chapter 24

Disclaimer: Don't own CSI

**Chapter 24**

The building Grissom had pointed out to Brass before the gunshots were fired was a workshop where Lambert made coffins. They found woodworking materials, tools and machinery, and, much to Grissom's dismay, two newly constructed and completed coffins.

"It looks like he was gearing up to use more coffins," he said.

The scene needed to be processed, so the CSIs went back to their vehicles to get their kits. Warrick and Catherine went back into the warehouse, and Grissom stood next to Brass' car. Brass came up to him, and found Grissom dabbing his arm with cotton balls.

"Hey, you going back in there?" he said.

Grissom turned around. There were several cuts on his forearm, some bleeding more than others. "These itch like hell," he said dabbing more alcohol on his arm. He then examined one of the cuts and prodded it until a shard came out of it.

Brass watched as Grissom took off his vest and grabbed his windbreaker. "You sure you're OK?"

Grissom made a face, but wouldn't look Brass in the eyes. "Yeah. Fine. I'm going back there but I wanted to walk around that part of the yard first," Grissom said, pointing to an area of the compound with several cars, pieces of discarded furniture and appliances.

"I'll come with you. Looking for anything in particular?"

"Actually, a garbage truck."

"Of course you are," Brass said. "Well, that shouldn't be too hard to find."

Brass and Grissom split up to see what they could find. After about five minutes, Brass used his cellular's phone-to-phone feature to radio Grissom. "Gil, didn't Flemming have a gray Grand Am?"

"Yes," Grissom answered.

"Come over to the south end of the property about 40 yards from the back of the house. I think I found it."

"Be right there."

Grissom found Brass standing among several cars in various states of salvage. Doors, windshields, bumpers, hoods, tires and engine blocks were among the pieces missing from some of the cars — some more skeletal than others.

Brass talked on his cellular as he used his flashlight to examine the vehicle identification number on a gray Grand Am. He snapped the phone shut when Grissom approached. "It's Flemming's car, or what's left of it. You want to take a look or have it towed to the lab now?" Brass asked.

"Let's tow it. I just got off the phone with Nick. He'll wait for it and start processing immediately."

Brass got back on the phone. As he arranged for the tow, Grissom took a look around. Behind some old refrigerators, he spotted something that looked like cushions. Although they were dirty, they seemed to belong to an expensive leather couch.

Grissom went behind the large appliances and found, what seemed to be, the damaged frame of a couch for those very cushions. Grissom put on his glasses, took a closer look and saw it was riddled with bugs. He was swabbing a portion of the leather left on of the frame when Brass found him. The sight and smell made Brass make a sour face. "You know, that won't help with this couch's resale value," Brass said.

Grissom smiled but didn't look at Brass, keeping his focus on the swab, which tested positive for blood. He got up and showed the swab to Brass. "Remember the George Cody scene? Greg and I thought maybe they transported Cody's body inside a couch. We need to get this back to the lab, as well," Grissom said.

After taking a few more samples, and extracting a set of prints from the arm rest and feet of one side of the couch, Grissom took a moment to stretch his legs. He stood among the car skeletons and spun around looking in every direction. "Where are the cars that can still move?" Grissom asked Brass.

"I didn't see any here," Brass said. "My guess is if he put the guys in the coffin from over there," Brass said, pointing to the workshop in the distance, "maybe he would also park the cars there."

Grissom gave an agreeable nod, and the two men walked to the workshop where Warrick and Catherine were processing. Whereas the area around the main house was well illuminated, thanks lighting from within and outside the house, the lighting at the outside the workshop was nonexistent. When Brass and Grissom got to the workshop, they didn't see any working cars in the immediate vicinity, so they walked further away from the building. The sun still had nearly two hours to rise, so they walked in total darkness, sans the illumination streaming from their flashlights.

Once they were 75 yards from the workshop, they stopped. "Well, I feel like I've just found Waldo," Brass said.

"Yeah, if Waldo was a garbage man," Grissom said as he and his friend stared at a large, black dump truck. Grissom immediately beamed his flashlight where he thought he would find a logo — which he did. And it was the same logo of the disposal company from Arizona on the garbage truck in the surveillance videos.

Someone had rigged the vehicle to include compartments to hold coffins securely and out of sight. Since it was used as a recycle truck, there were openings available on the side of the truck. While it formerly held compartments for paper, plastic and steel, it now could be used to hold one coffin on each side. As Brass and Grissom peered into the compartments, Brass noted the rubber bumpers on every side of the coffin compartment.

"That's a lot of craftsmanship and care for something that's going into the ground," he said. "Someone didn't want to scratch their handiwork."

"Looks like they could transport three coffins at a time. There's also a compartment right here in the back."

Along with the garbage truck, the men saw two other vehicles — a white van and a car that looked like it was used as an airport taxi. Grissom took in the elements. Things were starting to fall into place.

"We're going to need more help processing," Grissom said. "Let's see what Catherine and Warrick have found."

Walking back into the workshop, Brass and Grissom found Catherine and Warrick examining items found in the corner away from the coffins where there was a chair, table and a box. "What every killer needs," Catherine said, explaining what was in the box. "A gun, some gags, blindfolds and a Bible."

"But no knife," Grissom said.

"No, that must be a more personal item," Catherine said.

When Brass and Grissom came into the workshop, Warrick drifted to another corner of the warehouse that had a door. He opened it and found a small lab inside, complete with equipment and chemicals to make crystal meth.

"Hey guys," he yelled. "We need HAZMAT out here. We got a drug lab."

"This whole compound is a major crime scene," Grissom said. "We have a lot to talk about with Mr. Lambert."

**TBC**

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Next chapter is a long one. Hope to update soon.

BTW, saw Cadillac Man on TV the other night. Did you know Brass was in that? I had forgotten. They cut his hair too short and I miss Brasscentric eppys.


	26. Chapter 25

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI.

A/N: The longest chapter to date. I hope the payoff is worth it.

**Chapter 25**

All he wanted to do was take a shower. Take a shower and go to sleep. But there was too much work to do, even with all the work that had been accomplished in the past few hours.

Grissom contacted Detective Mathers in Mesquite, who had a few of his officers come and help process the Lambert compound. As a result, several key findings had been made. The gun found in the warehouse was compared to the bullets extracted from several of the bodies found in the cemetery in Overton. Bobby's results yielded matches for all the gunshot victims to that gun, including George Cody, Flemming's neighbor, the four former Corlin inmates and the Corlin prison guard, Paul Tran.

Hodges heard from the Raleigh Police Department about a DNA sample for Davis Heiden, the ranchero who had mysteriously disappeared from North Carolina. The DNA was a match for the only John Doe found in the Overton cemetery. DNA from the blood sample on the bloody couch from the compound matched that for George Cody.

Fingerprints were aplenty on the compound, and unfortunately there were many unknowns, especially on the steering wheel of the garbage/recycle truck, the Bible found with the gun and gags, and the chair where the CSIs believed victims were restrained and killed. But of the unknowns, two of the same sets would pop up. Lambert had two partners, but neither had their prints in the system.

But there were plenty of Lambert's prints on evidence, including on the feet of what was suspected to be George Cody's couch. There was a lot to talk about with Mr. Lambert, but a clear-cut connection between all these crimes and Garrison Thompson eluded authorities. Grissom knew he shouldn't think about what wasn't there, and focus on what was there. But that realization didn't make him any less tired.

Staring into the window to the interrogation room at PD, Grissom silently watched Lambert discuss his situation with his public defender. But Grissom's thoughts began to float away from the case. After the shooting on the compound and especially after his recent phone call with Catherine, Grissom felt a need to talk. Not to Catherine or Brass or any of his coworkers, but to her. He didn't feel like he had to tell her what happened. He just wanted to say hello and hear her voice.

Grissom absentmindedly rubbed his arm and then took his cellular out of his pocket. It wasn't until he palmed the phone that he broke his vacant stare from the interrogation room and just looked at the phone. Again, his thoughts were vacant, and he simply flipped the phone open and snapped it shut a couple of times. Would listening to a voice mail message be enough? Grissom knew that it wouldn't.

Brass came up behind him. "Hey, were you trying to call Catherine?"

Grissom's trance broken, he turned around. "Catherine is tracking down the lead concerning the girl Flemming took to a domestic violence shelter. She said to do this interview without her. You ready?"

--

Before Grissom and Brass' interview with Lambert, Catherine worked to track down Angela, the girl Seamus Flemming took to a domestic violence shelter. First Catherine visited Maggie Dominguez's residence and found out Flemming did indeed ask Maggie about a shelter. Maggie said she felt ignorant that she didn't remember that fact when she first talked to Catherine's colleague.

"You just found out a good friend had died," Catherine told her, trying to assuage her guilt. "Besides, you have a lot on your plate now. Past due?"

"By a week," Maggie said. "But if you worried about a trip to the emergency room, forget it. If 'Little Miss I-Don't-Care-About-Due-Dates' here decides to come now, she'll just have to wait an hour. Screw contractions, this is important."

Catherine had to laugh. Maggie seemed tough. Because Maggie did not have the information about her contact at home, Catherine offered to drive Maggie to her office to retrieve the information. Maggie made the call to inquire about Seamus and Angela. Confidentiality is sacred among the shelters, but because of Maggie's experience, knowledge and reputation, she found Angela was safe in a shelter and still in the "system" of shelters.

Maggie asked whether a message could be delivered to Angela as to whether she might be willing to help police about Flemming's murder. Maggie's contact said she would make some calls. Catherine and Maggie waited and hoped a face-to-face meeting with Angela could be secured.

Apparently Angela had a degree of loyalty to Flemming. According to the shelter representative, Angela wanted to help if her information would help get Seamus' killer behind bars.

But meeting with Angela had to not only secure her safety but the safety of the other women at the shelter. Catherine tried to understand what Maggie was talking about as the pregnant woman took the call from her contact. She watched Maggie take down directions and repeat what she wrote for clarification. "4508 El Dorado Drive." "You want her there in 30 minutes." Then Catherine heard Maggie say something that really peaked her interest, "How about her daughter's graduation?"

After that comment, Maggie hung up the phone. "I have the directions for you and they asked you to go there in half an hour," Maggie told Catherine as she handed her a piece of paper. "Now, when you reach the establishment, you have to say the phrase on that paper. I know it seems like a cheesy mystery, but we have to do it this way to secure the anonymity of the shelter and the people there. I hope you understand, we're not leading you on a wild goose chase."

Catherine understood. This was serious business. She'd see what happens when women don't take precautions.

The 30 minutes gave Catherine enough time to take Maggie back home, and call Grissom about her progress.

"Is Lambert there with a lawyer?" Catherine asked Grissom.

"Yes. Brass should be here shortly. Did you want us to wait?"

"No. Just do the Lambert interview without me," she told Grissom.

"Cath, are you going to be OK? Should I call Warrick to meet you?"

The concern surprised Catherine. "No. That's not a good idea. What's wrong? Are you OK?"

"Yeah," Grissom said, short but probably not convincingly. "It's nothing… I'm fine."

"You need some rest. Hell, I need some rest. And by the way, you should have told me about Maggie Dominguez's 'condition.'_ I_ thought I'd have to deliver the baby in the SUV."

"She's pregnant? I didn't notice."

"_Dry humor. That should get the mother hen off my back," _Grissom thought

"Careful. I might think you're dead serious about that," Catherine said. "It's not unheard of for Gil Grissom to ignore what's going on with women."

"_So much for getting Catherine off my back," _he mused.

"_People. I meant to say people." _Catherine thought.

"People," Catherine said, backtracking. "You're good at ignoring people."

"I get it, Catherine."

Since her attempt at humor was not as good as Grissom's, Catherine figured she should cut her losses. "I'll let you know what's going on. OK?" Catherine said.

"Yeah. Good luck."

"Thanks." She thought about apologizing, but Grissom hung up.

"_Ah," _Catherine thought. _"He'll get over it."_

--

Brass followed Grissom into the interrogation room and closed the door behind him.

"Fred Lambert. OK, let's not waste any time."

Lambert offered no expression on his rounded face. He had a muscular build, although he was not bulky. His hazel eyes seemed flat — devoid of any emotion, much like his demeanor.

"Not talkative? That's OK. I got plenty to talk about. Assault with intent to kill law enforcement officers, materials to produce controlled substances, oh, and there is the mountain of evidence that connects you with the murders of at least seven people, including a gun used to kill six of those people," Brass said. "I don't know, Fred. Keeping your mouth shut will only get that much closer into a cell where you'll spend the rest of your days wondering what the lethal injection will feel like."

Lambert's lawyer showed more expression than his client during the rundown of possible charges. He whispered something in Lambert's ear. Although he leaned in to hear the advice, Lambert neither gave a hint of approval or a scrap of dissent. He simply leaned back to sit up straight in his chair.

Before the lawyer could get anything out of his mouth, seeing as his client gave him no guidance about what he wished to do with the situation, Grissom spoke up. "You're proud of your craftsmanship, aren't you?"

Lambert made eye contact, which was enough for Grissom to continue.

"Your skills are obvious. The quality of the coffins you produced rivaled those models costing thousands of dollars."

Lambert offered a ghost of a smile. "Thanks."

"I suppose that's why you took the time to renovate the recycle truck with rubber siding within the carrier bins."

"I didn't want any scuffs," Lambert said. His voice offered no emotion — no fear, no arrogance, no frustration — nothing. "It takes a long time to make those things."

"Did you learn your craft in prison workshops or hone your skills there?" Grissom asked.

Lambert shrugged a bit. "Got pretty good at woodworking in prison, so I thought I could make a living out of it," Lambert said flatly.

"You make a living out of killing the men in the boxes you make?" Brass asked.

Lambert shifted. "I make boxes. I don't make messes."

"Yeah, yeah. I've heard enough of this," Brass' temper was showing. "That whole compound of yours, it's a mess. Your prints, the murder weapons, the drugs, it's all connected to you, genius. Now, if you're not willing to talk with us, let's just leave now and close this damn case."

As Brass got up, Lambert lifted his cuffed hands off the table, but didn't say a word.

Brass turned around. He looked at Grissom, who stood up and walked out the door. Then Brass addressed Lambert's lawyer. "We'll call the D.A. and tell her to get the indictment ready, no deals necessary."

At this, Lambert's public defender butted in. "Wait! Before you make any calls, just give me five minutes with my client."

Lambert let out a sigh. "What? What are we going to talk about?"

Brass then turned to address Lambert. "1994 conviction possession controlled substance; 1998 conviction of armed robbery. You had one strike left, Fred, and you swung at it when you fired that gun at us. We've got evidence against you and only you, Lambert. You really think the needle is a stretch for the D.A.?"

Brass left the room and stood next to Grissom as they looked at Lambert and his lawyer. It wasn't that Lambert had a good poker face, he was vacant. While other criminals might display a hint of emotion, whether it was trepidation or arrogance — Lambert offered nothing. And Brass was right; Lambert was facing three strikes — an automatic 25 years. Add connections to a bunch of dead bodies, and that could lead to an express lane to Death Row. The public defender knew that, but there was no telling if that idea was beginning to dawn on Lambert.

"He's got nothing to gain if he talks," Brass said. "We don't have hard evidence to link him to the murders."

"Yeah, but we haven't finished processing everything. And he doesn't know what we have and what we don't have," Grissom said. "There must be something there in the evidence he knows we can find."

"We just have to find it," Brass said.

Grissom said nothing. Lambert's look – it almost looked familiar. "Jim, while we're waiting, I need to make a visual lineup prepared for Lambert when he does talk to us."

"Go ahead," Brass said. "I'll wait here."

--

Catherine made it to her location — a small print shop — during the prescribed timeframe. She entered the front door, a bell ringing to sound her arrival. There was one other customer in the shop, and a woman came from the back to greet Catherine. "Can I help you?"

Catherine offered the line Maggie gave her word-for-word. "I'm here to pick up the seven invitation samples for my daughter's graduation?"

The woman did not skip a beat. "Yes ma'am," the woman said as she reached under the counter for a manila envelope. "Here you go ma'am. We'll need at least a four-week lead time for the invitations."

"Thank you," Catherine said as she put on her sunglasses and turned to leave. Once inside her SUV, Catherine checked the contents of the envelope. Among the several different invitation samples was a sheet of paper with directions to an address in Boulder City and a time to meet. The instructions stated that Catherine should not drive straight from the print shop to the meeting location. Instead she should try to run errands or go home or do anything except go to her workplace or straight to Boulder City. Once she made it to her address, she should exit her vehicle with only her handbag. Any items she might need for the interview — her police identification, firearm, notebook, etc. — should be concealed in the handbag.

Once at the location, a woman would greet Catherine enthusiastically as a friend, and Catherine should reciprocate in kind. Catherine understood what was written. To everyone else, this should be coffee with a friend.

And Catherine was willing to comply.

Since it was still early, Catherine made her way home and enjoyed some peace and a shower. Her 40-minute drive to Boulder City was uneventful, although Catherine did take notice to see if anyone had followed her. The address led her to a residence in a small, upper-middle class neighborhood. With her keys, gun, ID and notebook secure in her handbag, Catherine exited her vehicle. She made her way up the driveway to see a woman come out the front door and wave at her.

"Hey, there!" the woman said. "You look great! How are you?"

The woman embraced Catherine in a hug.

"I'm good," Catherine said. "Look at you!"

The woman took a look at Catherine, eyeing her up and down. Catherine did the same. Amazing how a person harboring women who were in abusive relationships had the same investigative techniques as a well-seasoned and highly trained CSI.

"Well," the woman said putting an arm around Catherine's shoulder. "Come on in. Come on in. We have a lot of catching up to do. Coffee?"

"Industrial strength would be great," Catherine said as she entered the home.

Once inside, Catherine noticed although the home had sufficient lighting, the blinds were all drawn. The woman who greeted her outside took a quick, inconspicuous look around outside before shutting her front door and locking it properly.

"Hi, I'm Meredith. You must be Catherine Willows?"

"Yes, with the Las Vegas Crime Lab." Catherine retrieved her ID for Meredith to see. "Is everything OK in here?"

"Absolutely. I hope you didn't mind the exchange out there."

"No need to explain. I understand."

"OK, come over here to the kitchen. No windows and plenty of coffee. I'll go get her. Help yourself to a mug, if you like."

Catherine waited without coffee. She saw Meredith return to the kitchen walking closely to a young woman, probably 18 or 19. She was dressed simply — jeans and a t-shirt. No makeup. No piercings. And her long hair was just that — long and straight. What set her apart from an average teen was her face. Her look, her lines, they all spoke of the experiences and abuse this girl suffered. She was hard, but unlike so many other hardened girls, she seemed to have physically separated herself from that life. A rarity. And now she was taking a chance to talk to Catherine. She most likely would not be able to return to the shelter she had come from. But she was apparently willing to do that.

"Angela? My name is Catherine Willows. Thanks for talking with me."

"Hello. Actually, my real name is Laura … Laura Wolling. I used Angela once I ran away."

"Should I call you Laura?"

"Yes, please."

"You ready to talk?"

"Yeah."

Meredith suggested they sit at the kitchen table. "Laura, you want me to wait here or in the other room?"

Laura looked at Catherine. "Is it OK is she sticks around?"

Catherine knew Laura had to feel comfortable for this interview to work. Meredith could sense a bit of unease and suggested she stay in the kitchen while they talked. "I don't want to disturb you. If that's OK with both of you?"

Both women nodded. Meredith made her way almost completely out of earshot while still staying in the kitchen.

"Laura, tell me about when you met Seamus Flemming."

Laura sighed. "I had recognized him. Well, him and his car. A couple of nights before he picked me up, I remember seeing him trolling while me and the other girls were working. Then one night he stopped. I thought he just wanted a date."

"What did he say when he picked you up?"

"He said he wanted to take me around the block behind this restaurant. He said he wanted oral and all the way. So I took a look around for Victor, he gave me the OK, and I got in the car."

"And Victor. He's your pimp?"

"My keeper," Laura shuddered at the memory. "After I ran away from home, I bounced around, and then I stayed with Justin. We would get high together and he would, you know, sell me off for cash or drugs. But he got in a hole with Victor, so … I … had to… you know … go with him."

Meredith came around with a box of tissues and gave Laura a glass of water, which Laura appreciated with a nod. Meredith patted Laura on the back and retreated to the back of the kitchen.

Catherine waited patiently as Laura took a drink of water, and gathered her thoughts. This could all be an act, but Catherine didn't think so. For now, she trusted Laura, but that could all change. She still regarded her with caution.

--

Lambert's lawyer knocked on window to get Brass and Grissom's attention. He didn't know that Grissom had excused himself to get a photo lineup secured. Brass opened the door and entered the room. "He ready to talk?"

"First things, first. My client states he killed no one. He admits he created coffins, but he did not commit murder."

Brass took a seat and offered no emotion to the statement. "We are going through the evidence now. We'll see exactly what it will tell us."

"I'm willing to talk," Lambert said, frustration evident in his voice. "But not without a deal."

At that point, Grissom quietly entered the room holding several different file folders. He took the chair next to Brass, who spoke to Lambert after Grissom sat down. "Look, deals are for lawyers. This is a police interview where you can help yourself so deals might be considered. But I'm not going to sit here and waste my time babysitting you or coddling you so you might talk." Brass' voice demonstrated an air of control and authority. He turned to Grissom and asked, "What did they say about the gun from Lambert's compound?"

Although Grissom knew the answer (and so did Brass), the CSI opened one of his files and said, "Ballistics confirms a positive match for the bullets used to kill six victims found in the coffins made by Mr. Lambert," Grissom pushed some copies toward Lambert's attorney. "Fingerprints showed Mr. Lambert's prints on the barrel of the gun…"

"Yeah, but not the grip," Lambert cut in.

"Shooters might remember to wipe off prints off a grip, but not the barrel," Grissom countered. "Besides, the gun was found in your workshop where your prints are all over coffins you already admitted to constructing. So, if your prints weren't on the grip, whose would be?"

Lambert turned his head away and started chewing on the inside of his bottom lip. "Look, I'm not going to prison with those two crazy sons of bitches. They'll fuckin' kill me. I have to have a deal."

"What two crazy sons of bitches?" Brass asked.

"The Mexican and the Bible-thumping kid. They're fuckin' animals."

Brass' tone was tinged with both sarcasm and utter frustration. "What the hell is that? A new dynamic duo? Names, Lambert. If you want to get anywhere we need names!"

"I don't use names. Bad for the health."

"How about faces?" Grissom interjected. "Are you good at remembering faces?"

"Yeah."

"Why don't we start with that Bible-thumping kid," Grissom said, laying out his photo array of young men taken from eight different driver's license photos. "Recognize him in this layout?"

Lambert took the task seriously and looked closely. "Yeah. That's him," Lambert said, pointing to the third teen on the top row. It was Dennis Haggerty.

"OK," Brass said. "What about him?"

"He helped with the bodies."

"How? Burying, transporting or killing."

"A little bit of everything, man."

"Oh, and you didn't do a little bit of everything? What, we're supposed to believe two guys would bring over dead bodies while you were cooking meth and you would just put them in boxes and be on your merry way," Brass said. "Come on! We know guys were killed right there in that warehouse."

"Look," Lambert seemed desperate. "I didn't do the killing. That wasn't my job. After prison, Victor came up to me and hired me to make coffins. Then he started the lab and I did that for him. But the killing? No, way that was up to that kid and Victor."

"I thought you didn't deal in names?" Grissom said, quickly.

Lambert cursed under his breath and cupped his forehead with his handcuffed hands. He'd blown it.

Brass recognized that look. "You're in deep, Lambert. Give us the details."

Lambert tried not to make eye contact with anyone, but Grissom's eyes met Lambert's. And there it was — fear.

"When did the kid, Dennis Haggerty, come into the picture?"

Lambert sighed. "About two or three weeks ago. Before that, Victor came alone looking for drugs and making sure I was making coffins. Then one day, he comes in with a dead body."

"You recognize the dead guy?" Brass asked.

"I think he was an inmate at Corlin, but I didn't ask and I didn't look too good. We just put him in a box and took him to a funeral home in Mesquite."

"Who was the contact in Mesquite?" Grissom asked.

"Don't know. Victor arranged everything. When we got there a back door was open and we took the coffin in. But damn, it was tough to load and unload that box with just two people. Next thing I know, Victor comes in a couple days later with this kid and they want to borrow my airport taxi."

"_David Heiden," _Grissom thought.

"They went to pick up some guy at the airport. They came back here and with a dead body in the back of the taxi. Fuckin' ruined it. Victor wanted me to clean it out and shit, but I don't fuckin' get paid enough. And he never went back to check, so I didn't mention I didn't clean it," Lambert said. "When they got back, that kid was fuckin' shaking. Told me Victor grabbed the guy from the front seat into the back seat and just whaled on him while the kid drove. Then he took out his huge hunting knife and just slit the fuck out of his throat. The kid puked in the car. Between that and the blood and everything else, car's fuckin' ruined. You want fuckin' evidence, check the taxi."

"We are," Brass said. "Did the kid puke on anything else?"

"Nah, man. Twisted fucker started liking it. From then on, they started bringing in dudes and shooting them here. I wanted nothing of that. I was supposed to the loading and unloading zone, you know, but fuck if I was going to tell off Victor."

"How did you know that Dennis started to enjoy it?" Grissom asked.

"The kid?" Lambert asked, which Grissom responded with a nod. "They'd come in and bring in guys."

Again Brass asked, "You recognize any of them?"

Lambert acquiesced. "Yeah, a few of them."

"Any idea what they had in common?" Brass asked.

"Look, I don't know. I've been out of the joint for a little while."

"OK, tell us again about Dennis," Brass said.

"About three times, they would bring a dude in, and yeah, a few were inmates and I swear, one of the last dudes was a guard. Victor and the kid would bring them in the workshop and I'd watch them tie them up in a chair. And man, the wicked laughs, I just wanted to get the fuck away from them."

"But you didn't go far, did you?" Grissom said. "It's like a horror movie, right? You didn't want to be that close, but you wanted to see what happened."

Lambert leaned forward toward Grissom. "That doesn't fuckin' make me a murderer."

"No, it makes you an accessory."

Lambert wouldn't let it go. "You really think I could have done something? They are fuckin' crazy. They fuckin' would have killed me like that," Lambert said, snapping his fingers.

Brass broke in. "Hey! Keep talking Lambert."

Lambert leaned back in his chair. "I watched from a window. Walls are paper thin, so I could hear everything. And the kid did the yelling and the talking. Had this huge Bible and he would open it and read it and then smash the dude's face with it. After a while, I guess they had their fun, and I'd hear the shot. That was like my signal to come in and start loading."

"So you put the bodies in coffins and then delivered them to Mesquite on the same night."

"Most times. Sometimes things had to wait, I guess because of Victor's contacts or if Victor and the kid had other business to do."

"What kind of business?" Brass asked.

"I don't know. The drugs. Victor pimped women. I didn't get involved with those two. They seemed to have a system — bring 'em and shoot them."

"But they didn't kill everyone in that fashion, did they Mr. Lambert?" Grissom asked. "There was another car at your compound that belonged to another victim. You picked it apart a bit. Why don't you tell us about that?"

Lambert again couldn't avoid Grissom's eyes. "You see what they did to that poor bastard? You understand why I say they are twisted mother fuckers? One day, the kid comes in to pick up meth and I see him fooling with one of the boxes. When I asked him what the hell was he doing, he screamed at me not to touch it and start spouting Bible verses. I thought, whatever," Lambert said. "Then Victor and him come in a day later with that car and bring in this dude who looked jacked up but fought something fierce."

"You recognize him?" Brass asked.

"No," Lambert said, almost mournfully. "I would have remembered him. His eyes, Christ, they were fucking… I would have remembered his eyes."

Grissom listened intently. He understood what Lambert was saying. The memory of Seamus Flemming's death quickly chipped away Lambert's tough guy attitude. He was no angel, but he was out of his league when he dealt with his two partners.

After finding Grissom's eyes, Lambert turned away for a second, but continued to recall that day.

"When they… when they came in with that dude, I walked away but I turned around because there was this God-awful smell. Next thing I see, they've got the guy in the box. They're taping him up and pounding on him and doing something to his hands that made him scream like hell. Finally they put the lid down. Victor told me to get sealant. I just stopped, you know, this was fucking crazy! Then Victor comes towards me and puts that knife to my throat and tells me to get the sealant or I'm in the next box. So I got the stuff and they sealed the box tight."

Lambert paused again and swallowed hard. "I couldn't stand the noise. He must have been kicking and screaming. I couldn't listen to it… I almost lost it and they just fucking laughed at me."

Lambert's face went completely blank. "I thought I was dead. I thought I was going into a box. Then I saw them put the box on a gurney and put it out in the sun."

Sweat was rolling off of Lambert's head. "Dude… dude probably baked out there. They left about an hour or two later, so… I went to the box. There wasn't any noise, so brought it back inside."

"Why?" Grissom asked.

Lambert looked up, tiredly rubbed his forehead and shook his head in frustration and fear. "I don't know."

Grissom took a breath. "There were two more coffins in your workshop. Why did you make them?"

"The kid told me to."

"Did you ask who they were for?"

"Yeah. He just… gave me that wicked fuckin' smile."

"So, you thought one was for you?"

Lambert looked at Grissom, then looked away and just nodded his head.

"When you shot up your house, you thought it was him, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"Wait a minute," Brass said. "We had lights flashing and there was cops at the front and back door. Why the hell would you think it was him?"

Lambert voice shot up an octave. "What the fuck did I know?! I thought they were fuckin' guards or something. Hell, they could have been cops on the take. It doesn't matter. He's got connections."

"Whose got the connections? Victor?"

"Victor? No! Thompson!" Lambert exclaimed. "He was the one who told Victor about me. He had Victor contact me."

Lambert's agitation was peaking. His hands and feet were fidgeting and his whole body was shaking.

"Those inmates? They probably pissed off Thompson. Same with that goddamn guard. Thompson probably has guards on the take, whose to say he doesn't have cops. Jesus, I'm fuckin' dead!"

At that statement, Lambert stood up, prompting Brass to stand with his hand on his gun. "Lambert! Sit down."

Lambert's public defender put his hand on Lambert's arm. Brass kept an eye on Lambert, who started hyperventilating.

--

The kitchen of the Boulder City residence was silent. Catherine waited patiently as Laura as she composed herself after talking about how she first started prostituting for Victor Chapute.

"Sorry. It's not like I like to remember this stuff," she told Catherine.

"I understand, but I really need information. Laura, there's a lot of questions I need to ask."

"No, wait. It's cool. I want to do this. It's just… sometimes it's tough. But, it's cool. I need to do this."

"Laura, I have to ask this. Are you clean?" Catherine asked.

"Yeah. Have been for a while. I was clean for a couple of weeks when Jimmy, that's what he told me was his name, picked me up. Victor wanted us girls strung out, but after a while, I learned how to fake it. Wasn't too hard. Compared to the other girls, Victor kind of left me alone."

"Why?"

"I guess 'cause I was already used," Laura said. "The other girls were fresh meat. Really young runaways."

"So, when Jimmy asked for you to get in the car and go around the corner, Victor didn't think much about it?"

"Wasn't the first time it happened," Laura said, almost casually but there was that tinge of sadness and regret. "I guess I was the street girl. He wasn't on my ass like the other girls."

"Laura, I want to talk about that more, but I want to get back to what happened when Jimmy picked you up," Catherine felt she had to measure what she said. "Would that be OK with you?"

"Yeah. OK. Umm… So Jimmy picks me up and when I got in the car, he starts saying he is a reporter and he needed information from me," Laura said. "I kinda wanted to get out of the car 'cause if Victor knew I was talking to a reporter, he'd kill me."

"So why did you stay?"

"He was talking about knowing Victor while in North Carolina and how he was concerned he might be hurting us girls 'cause he thought Victor might have been connected to some girls back where he came from," Laura stopped for a moment. "I don't know why, but that's when I told him that Janice and Monica had been missing."

"Who were they?"

"Girls. A couple of runaways Victor picked for fresh meat. I hadn't seen Janice for a couple of weeks and Monica for a few days."

Catherine took a file folder out of her carry on. "Laura, we've found three young women murdered in the last three weeks. They all had a tattoo of a cross on fire…"

"You mean like this?" Laura asked, pushing her long hair to one side to reveal a similar tattoo. "Jimmy asked me about this too."

Catherine took pause. Right track. "Yeah, just like that. Laura, I'd like you to look at these photos and tell me if you recognize these women, but they're graphic."

"It's OK. I want to help." Laura took the photos from Catherine. The young woman swallowed and swiped at her eyes. She especially took her time looking at the photo of the girl with the short hair. "That's Emily. She was just 15. She ran away from Modesto where her grandfather was beating her and her mom. She came to Vegas four weeks ago. She told me she'd only kissed boys before she came here," Laura swallowed again while her voice cracked. "That changed after her initiation. I think a part of her died then. I didn't know she was gone."

Catherine put a hand on Laura's as it sat on the table. "We found Emily's body about four days ago. I'm sorry." Laura looked up and nodded, allowing Catherine to continue talking. "What about the other two? Do you recognize them?"

"Yeah. Janice and Monica," Laura said. "They were a little older than Emily and had been with Victor maybe a month or two more."

"Laura, what did Janice and Monica do before they went missing? Did they go somewhere different or have the same client."

"Yeah, you could say that. They weren't supposed to talk about it, but before Monica went, she told me she visited some guy in prison. She had to take something to him, he was supposed to get his kicks and then he would give her something to give Victor. Is that why they died?"

"We don't know. But according to our timelines, we think they died shortly after the visit."

"I was supposed to go," Laura said. "A day before Jimmy picked me up, Victor told me I would be going to the prison for a drop-off. That should have been me instead of Emily."

Laura had to stop. Catherine thought she would lose it, but the young women regained her composure and sat up straight.

"You're going to get this guy, right?"

"I'll need your help."

"The only thing I can tell you about the visits is what Monica said. She went to visit one guy, but she had to go to another part of the visiting room to service another prisoner."

"Did Monica describe him?"

"Skinny. Red hair. Small dick."

Catherine smiled. "What else?"

"He liked it from behind and wouldn't look at her. Took him a while to get it up. She also had to smuggle some drugs in and smuggle money out."

"How did she do that?"

"She wore a maxi pad. Once she did her job, she left."

"How long after that did she go missing?"

"I don't remember, maybe a couple of days."

Catherine was furiously writing notes. With that information and the surveillance video of the prison, that should be enough to get a warrant for a sample of Thompson's DNA.

"Did you tell all of this to Seamus Flemming, to Jimmy?"

"Yeah. Most of it," Laura recalled. "When I told him I was supposed to go, that's when he pleaded with me to get to a shelter. He told me there was a better way. He was just insistent. … I'm still surprised I let him take me there. … I don't know, I guess you can't understand…"

"It's OK. Try me," Catherine said.

"I was almost afraid of getting help. I was afraid Victor'd come after me, but Jimmy… he just started driving away from the lot with his lights off."

Laura took a breath. It was as if he was searching Catherine to see if she could trust the older woman. Something told her she could. "I fought him. I actually scratched him. Almost jumped right out of the car. And you know what he did?"

Catherine shrugged a "No," and Laura grabbed onto Catherine's shoulders. "Jimmy held onto me like this and yelled, 'You can't do this. Please, let me help you!' Then he apologized to me and started driving. And I stopped trying to get out of the car. When we got to the shelter, I didn't say a word. Now I wish I did."

Catherine stared intently but patiently waited for the young woman to continue.

"I wish I said, 'Thank you,'" Laura said. "Now… now I'll never get the chance."

Catherine took a deep breath. "Laura, you're thanking him right now."

The two women looked at each other, and Laura skeptically offered a small laugh. "I hope so."

"I need to ask you about Victor," Catherine said. "Are you up to it?"

"Yeah. I don't know if I can tell you much. He told me his biggest money came from the younger girls. He would take us to different locations to sell us off. A lot of times, we'd work conventions."

"So, you guys would move around, not just do the Strip?"

"Oh, never the Strip."

"Where did Jimmy pick you up?"

"We were off in Bullhead City for a couple of days. Victor had us work a bunch of clients during the day, and he wanted extra cash, so a couple of us hit the streets at night."

"So, where is Victor's base?"

"We moved a lot. But he basically would have rat holes along the 515 between North Vegas and Henderson. But that's where we had to stay. I have no idea where he was."

"Did Victor work with any other people or was he a one-man operation?"

"All we ever saw was Victor and the johns. That's it. If there was anyone else, we didn't see them."

Catherine pulled out the surveillance photo that Archie produced of the driver of the truck that transported coffins to Hoffman Funeral Home. "Laura, do you recognize the man in this photo?"

Laura squinted, but took no time to answer. "Yeah, that's Victor. I can tell by his face and his tattoo. Just like mine."

Catherine appreciated the honesty and felt Laura wasn't holding anything back, but there had to be more. If they can't get Victor, they might still not be able to get Thompson. "What about communication? Did Victor have a computer or a land line you know about?"

"Everything was by phone — text and voice. And I must have seen Victor with a bunch of different phones. Almost like he had different phones for different uses. He had this green phone that he would use and all the sudden we'd being going on a gang job. He had a silver phone that he would use and we'd be moved to a different place. And when he got a call on the black phone, he'd pass around the needle and he'd disappear."

"You all had nowhere to go. That's why you stayed?"

"Yeah," Laura said sadly. "When you think about it, it's amazing I'm still here, isn't it?"

--

Brass, Grissom and Lambert's lawyer were unsuccessful at calming down the suspect as he had his anxiety attack. Extra officers entered the interrogation room to help with him, but paramedics were called and after some time, Lambert was calmed without a need for sedatives.

An hour had passed and Lambert and his lawyer were back in the interrogation room. To work out a deal with the district attorney, Lambert needed to offer full cooperation. In return, he would be secured in his own cell at the jail lockup.

Brass and Grissom had gotten a lot of information out of Lambert, but they needed some more, specifically, how to get in touch with Victor and Dennis Haggerty.

But Grissom also needed to find out something else.

"Mr. Lambert, did either Victor or Dennis come to the compound with a woman, alive or dead?"

"Nah. Never," Lambert said, looking exhausted. "But before the two of them left after they sealed that guy, Dennis and Victor got into a knock-down, drag-out. I heard Victor say something about one of his bitches, but I didn't hear much else. Victor was pretty stoned that day."

"He had taken meth?" Brass asked.

"He preferred to shoot up heroin. And he was more jacked up than the dude they sealed in that coffin."

"How do you get in touch with Victor and Dennis?" Grissom asked.

"I don't. They call me on the blue cellular Victor gave me. I wasn't supposed to use it for anything else. I think I left it in the kitchen."

"So Dennis never called you?"

"Me? No. But if you want to know where to find Victor, Dennis probably knows. I know they texted each other a lot."

--

Brass took care of processing Lambert, so Grissom made his way back to the lab and his office. It was hardly a sanctuary, but Grissom nevertheless took solace the moment he entered. He locked the door behind him and lay down on his couch. His eyes were closed but his mind went rampant. It was just as well. He shouldn't sleep here. He still had to check on the progress of the investigation and he still needed to contact Catherine about her interview.

But he couldn't seem to move off the couch. That was, until his cellular rang.

"Grissom."

"It's Catherine. I'm leaving my interview now."

"How did it go?"

"Good. I think we have enough for a warrant for Thompson's DNA."

"Really?" Grissom said sitting up on the couch.

"He's definitely connected with my girls. What did you get?"

"According to Lambert, Thompson had Victor Chapute contact Lambert about making coffins."

"And Victor was pimping my girls," Catherine's voice was high and almost painted a picture of the smile on her face. "We got them."

Grissom was still cautious. "No, we don't have anyone yet."

"Grissom, don't you dare. This is the first time I feel like we've been able to actually move forward."

"That's good, but let's go one step at a time here."

Grissom knew his turtle-like pace exasperated Catherine at times, especially after she most likely spent time with a young, abused woman who bravely poured her heart out. At this point, Grissom knew "slow and steady" just wasn't in Catherine's vocabulary.

"Look," Catherine said. "I can't come straight to the lab, I'll explain why later, but I'm going to get that warrant request ready for Thompson's DNA."

"A great first step."

"Dammit, I hate when you do that shit," Catherine said, anger evident in her tone. "Don't piss me off, Grissom."

"I'm not trying to, Catherine," Grissom tried to keep his anger in check. _"Sleep," _he thought. _"We both need sleep."_

Grissom sighed. "Go home. I'll be leaving here soon. Let's try to rest before we see each other again."

Catherine almost wished he didn't make sense because she really wanted to punch him. "Oh, so now you're pulling the supervisor card?"

"No," Grissom said, deadpan and without sarcasm. "I just don't want to see you because you might punch me."

With that, Catherine hung up the phone. She didn't want to give Grissom the satisfaction of hearing her laughter.

**TBC**

A/N: Enjoyed it? Tell your friends. Thanks so much for stopping by and reading. I hope it's moving well for you.


	27. Chapter 26

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI.

A/N: Another long chapter. Again, I hope the payoff is worth it.

**Chapter 26**

Grissom was curious whether unknown DNA samples and prints from Lambert's compound might match unknown samples and prints from Lyle Mackenzie, Catherine's murdered girls, and evidence from Seamus Flemming's and George Cody's residences. True, the amount of evidence to process from the compound was great, but with focus, CSIs concentrated on certain areas to gain the most progress.

Top priorities were the airport taxi and Flemming's car. But Grissom had an even higher priority. If Victor Chapute or Dennis Haggerty were to drop by the Lambert compound and see the police activity, they would certainly disappear. Somehow the scene had to be secured so that those two wouldn't be tipped off. Grissom walked through the halls of the lab as the dayshift crew worked. He knocked on the doorframe of an office.

"Grissom?" Ecklie said looking up from his desk. "You still here? I heard you had a long interview at PD."

Instead of following Ecklie's line of thought, Grissom forged his own. "Conrad, I think we need to put a roadblock or perimeter around the scene at the Lambert compound to ensure his partners don't hear of his arrest."

It's usually the road less traveled, but Ecklie traversed Grissom's train of thought. "We believe Lambert had two partners, right?" Grissom nodded. "You don't think they might already know?"

"Well," Grissom said with a sigh. "We got to the scene late last night and have been processing for hours. It's a possibility they have…"

Ecklie cut in. "Better safe than sorry. I can understand that. I haven't been to the scene. Is it a heavily populated area?"

"No. Set aside in the desert."

"Is there enough vegetation around to warrant suspicion of a brush fire?" Ecklie asked.

The notion intrigued Grissom. The perimeter could be set a mile around the compound under the guise that authorities were trying to keep a brush fire under control. Grissom was impressed with Ecklie's thinking. Sneaky and intelligent. How about that?

"That would work for me, Conrad."

Ecklie eyed Grissom, looking for sarcasm. But it didn't seem to be there. Agreement and a perhaps a small amount of gratitude. How about that?

"Tell you what, Grissom. I can get working on that immediately, but you have to do something for me."

Moment over.

"No, just listen," Ecklie said, gesturing before a word of dissent could leave Grissom's mouth. "Between this case and the Jackson murders, you, Stokes and Brown are maxed on overtime for the month. Now, I know you, so I'm not even going to go there. But do you think you could get to a moderate stopping point so Stokes and Brown could come off the clock for a bit?"

Grissom needed that perimeter. It would secure the scene, and if either suspect did come to the compound, police could get to them. And with the perimeter, the CSIs wouldn't have to work at breakneck speed to process the evidence worrying that suspects might disappear before evidence could prove their involvement.

"I'll go right now and find out their progress. If we are done processing two cars from the scene, I don't see why we can't take a break," Grissom said, and pulled out two photos from a file photo. "We do have photo IDs for the two partners. We should give them to the officers around the perimeter so they can alert us if they try to get to the compound."

"Good. Good. We'll get copies made and do that," Ecklie said, as he took the photos. Grissom nodded a gesture of thanks and went to leave, but stopped when Ecklie called to him.

"Grissom," Ecklie's eyes were on his desks and his paperwork, and not on Grissom. "Listen, when this case is over, you and I should talk about you taking some time off. You look like death warmed over."

Grissom made an introspective face as he gave the notion a thought. But he offered no retort or comment before he turned to leave.

--

Grissom found Nick in the garage working on the airport taxi and Flemming's car with Warrick. "Hey," Nick said, lifting his head out of the back seat of Flemming's car, "You just missed Greg, he was taking samples to DNA."

"What did you find?"

"I just found this," Nick got out of Flemming's car and carefully held a used needle in his gloved hand. "Greg just went to take samples from the taxi. We found a lot of blood in the back and truck of the car and vomit in the front seat."

"Lambert said Victor Chapute and Dennis Haggerty used the taxi to kidnap a victim, most probably Davis Heiden, and kill him. Lambert said Haggerty vomited in the car."

"Well, if that's true about killing Heiden here, we sure have enough blood samples to prove it. Greg just took it to trace. What do you think about this needle?"

"Lambert said Chapute used heroin and there were traces of meth in Flemming's system. Could have been used by either of them. We should be able to get a chemical analysis of what was in the syringe, plus some DNA," Grissom said. "Nice work. Have far are we with processing?"

"I think we're about done here," Nick said, as Warrick came out of the taxi to join Nick and Grissom.

"Yeah," Warrick agreed. "Got as much as we can, prints, samples."

"Warrick, did we find a blue cell phone in Lambert's kitchen?"

"Yeah, we did. Had only Lambert's prints on it. Archie has it now to check phone logs."

"Good work. Now, go home."

Nick and Warrick looked at each other, but Grissom continued. "I've already been told you two have too much overtime. So, how does the phrase go? You don't have to go home … but I recommend it."

"Close enough for me," Warrick said. "Don't have to ask me twice."

"OK, boss. We'll clean up here and get going."

Grissom left the garage but knew DNA and print results from Warrick, Greg and Nick's findings would not be ready. He thought he would gather his things and leave, but as he made his way towards his office, he noticed Catherine standing with her cellular.

She was so engrossed in the device that she didn't notice or hear Grissom coming toward her. She fervently typed a message and a tone sounded on her phone as it was sent. Just then, she looked up and jumped seeing Grissom in front of her. His phone sounded to prompt an incoming text.

"Jesus, you scared me."

Grissom smiled and checked his message. "Warrant is a go. Need to get to Corlin to get DNA from Thompson. You want to go?"

Grissom looked impressed. "Did you just type this whole message just now? That was quick."

Catherine looked proud. "A necessary talent when you have a teenage daughter."

"You even used capitalization and punctuation," Grissom added, still amazed by the speed.

"Yes, I'm a woman of many talents," Catherine said drolly. "So? Shall I go to Corlin? Because I would like to get some rest before Lindsey gets home."

"I'll go," Grissom said, thinking it might be best if a man went, although he would never say that to Catherine. "I'll take it back to the lab and then go home. It won't take long."

"Thanks," Catherine said. "Oh, and give my best to the Chosen One."

"I'll be sure to do that," Grissom said.

--

"Mr. Grissom. Well, isn't this a pleasure," said Garrison Thompson as he sat in a chair in an interview room at Corlin Correctional. He wore handcuffs, was dressed in a blue standard-issue jumpsuit and sported a wide grin. Grissom entered the room and did a double take when he saw the guard at the door. Grissom read the officer's name tag — BECK — but quickly turned his attention to the Thompson and his lawyer, Alex Milton, who also sat at the table.

"Mr. Thompson. Mr. Milton."

"Now, are you here to continue our discussion on faith?" Thompson asked with sugary-sweet sarcasm.

Grissom's no-nonsense demeanor filled the room as he opened his kit and extracted a warrant. "I have a warrant to obtain a sample of Mr. Thompson's DNA." Grissom pushed the warrant across the table to Milton.

"May I ask why that is Mr. Grissom?" Thompson asked, a smile still gracing his face.

"As you can see from the warrant, your name came up in a murder investigation of a 15-year-old girl."

"Mr. Grissom, it would seem this woman was killed while my client was incarcerated."

"That's correct."

Milton laughed. "Well, then my client should be eliminated as a suspect and his DNA should be unnecessary."

Grissom leaned toward the duo on the other side of the table. "The victim in question was sexually assaulted and had DNA on her from two separate male donors. We believe Mr. Thompson had sexual relations with the victim on the day she died and that one of the DNA samples belongs to him."

"Fairytales. How could my client possibly have had relations with a woman while he was in prison?" said Milton, as his client's smile began to fade. "And look at Mr. Thompson's visitor log sheets. With the exception of Ms. Willows, your colleague, he has had no female visitors while he has been incarcerated."

"Yes, but the victim did visit one of Mr. Thompson's fellow inmates, Jack Donahue. With the help of surveillance video, we believe, on that day, the victim and your client had a rendezvous in which they had sex."

"Ridiculous, Mr. Grissom. Does the tape show the sex act, because if not…"

Thompson cut off his lawyer. "Wait a minute, Brother Alex." Thompson then made a dramatic sigh. "It is true. I did have sexual relations with a female visitor recently. It was simply a spontaneous act, and she threw herself on me so that I could not control my own lustful desires."

Grissom watched with a skeptical but inquisitive eye as Thompson placed his cuffed hands on top of his lawyers. "Brother Alex. I am so sorry. I am not proud of what I did…"

"You mean, committing statutory rape?" Grissom asked. Milton looked at the CSI with an incredulous look, to which Grissom responded. "As I said before, the victim was 15 years old."

Thompson never let his gaze stray from his lawyer. "Brother Alex. I ask for your forgiveness for my terrible indiscretion."

Milton put his hand on top of Thompson and said something to him discreetly so that Grissom could neither hear him nor read his lips. Then Milton quickly withdrew his hand and addressed Grissom. "Mr. Grissom, my client admitted to the act and is willing to submit a confession in writing, so I don't know why there would be a need for his DNA."

"As I stated before, the victim had two samples of DNA. We need Mr. Thompson's DNA to identify which sample is his and which is of another perpetrator," Grissom said. "And let me remind you two that I have a warrant."

With that, Grissom retrieved a swab from his kit and made his way to the other side of the table. Thompson's good mood wasn't just deflated; it was decimated.

"Mr. Thompson I need you to open your mouth, sir."

With that, Thompson looked at Grissom with contempt, but opened wide for the swipe of the swab. "Thank you, Mr. Thompson. Gentlemen."

Grissom left, almost bumping into the guard who stood at the door. With the CSI gone, Thompson addressed Milton. "Brother Alex, I do hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me?"

Milton fidgeted a bit. "Garrison, what were you thinking? I know it is tough, but to take such a risk?"

"Brother Alex, it was a lapse of judgment, one that I hope to rectify with my confession. And not just to the authorities, but more importantly to you… my follower… my friend."

"And your lawyer. They might press charges."

"My worries do not lie with what Mr. Grissom might do," Garrison said. "However, I am worried about something else."

"Legally?"

"No, no. I trust you with my life, Brother Alex. I have no problems legally."

"Than what?"

"I received correspondence from a friend of mine. He seemed deeply troubled and I am not able to reach out to him," Garrison said. "I was wondering if you could pass along a message to another friend of mine so he might visit him."

"Well, what exactly is the message, Garrison? While you might not worry about legalities, that is my job."

Garrison laughed. "I truly understand, sir. No, the message is quite simple. I believe if my friend spends time with the man in quiet reflection of the Bible, it would do so much for his spirit."

"You mean meet the man for Bible study?"

"Exactly."

"Who is the friend you are worried about?"

"Fred Lambert."

Milton wrote down the name. "And who would you like to visit him and conduct the Bible study?"

"Dennis Haggerty."

--

When Grissom exited Corlin, he immediately turned his cellular back on. He noticed he had a missed call and one message. He saw the missed number. "Dammit!"

Sara.

He quickly went to access his voice mail.

"Hey. It's me. I'm calling because I will probably be about three to four days late getting back to San Francisco. And, as promised, I wanted to let you know. I hope you're doing OK. I was hoping to talk to you." Her pause was a Sara-ism — a gap in her nervous rambling. An "ism" Grissom always loved. "Well, why don't you try and call me back and hopefully I'll be in range. OK? I love you."

Grissom let out a string of curses. He didn't know what pissed him off more — the fact that he missed the call or the reason why he missed the call. Instead of pondering that thought any longer, he quickly dialed her number.

When he got voice mail, the curses returned until the ubiquitous beep.

"Hi honey. I'm sorry I missed you. I was doing a collection. Uh…. Hell, it's not worth getting into. I'm just… so … upset I missed you. I want to talk to you. I wish I could." Grissom's pause was not so much to figure out what to say, as it was to stop himself from saying something wrong. "We need to talk about what's going on, Sara. I … I need to ... see you. It's OK to say that, right?" At this point, Grissom found himself lightly laughing. "God, this is so difficult. I just hope we'll talk soon, honey. I love you."

Grissom hung up. He walked to his car and the curses began again. As he drove to the lab, every once in awhile Grissom found himself muttering, "Dammit."

It had been a long shift for Grissom. After dropping Thompson's DNA at the lab, he picked up Hank from the sitter and took him to the dog park for a bit of frivolity. Then the two made their way to the townhouse. Grissom took a big breath as he crossed his threshold. He cared for Hank, showered and got ready for bed.

Once he plopped down on the bed, Grissom stared at the ceiling and closed his eyes.

He found sleep immediately.

"Dammit."

Well, almost immediately.

--

It was 10 p.m. and Detective Raymond Mathers was driving down a lonely stretch of highway. A string of robberies in Mesquite had kept the detective from keeping up with the Seamus Flemming case, so he was glad he received a call from Gil Grissom with an update.

"Did you receive the bulletin and photos from Captain Brass?" Grissom asked.

"I did. That Haggerty boy, didn't you say you met him at that youth center?"

"That's correct. Right now we set a perimeter around the Lambert compound. It's possible either Haggerty or Chapute might come looking for Lambert."

"Our techs shared the DNA results and print results from the Mackenzie scene with your guys already. But the physical evidence should all be in one location. I thought I would pass by the Lambert compound as I drive down your way."

"That would be fine, detective. I'm due at the lab at midnight. I'll see you then."

"You got it," Mathers hung up the phone and continued to drive. In 15 minutes he made it to the perimeter and introduced himself to the officers on guard.

"Yes, detective. We've been expecting you."

"_That Grissom doesn't miss a trick," _Mathers thought. "You two been busy?"

"No sir, not a car."

"Tell you what. I'll do a shift for you while you take some time for a coffee break. There's an extra thermos in my truck if you two are interested."

"Thanks, detective."

Mathers had just finished a cup of homemade brew when he saw headlights coming fast toward the roadblock. He extracted his light and waved it hoping the car would stop. He noticed the car slowing and then coming to a complete stop. After a quickie walkie-talkie exchange with the officers on break, Mathers instructed the driver to move to the side of the road and roll down his window. He carefully approached the vehicle.

"Evening, son."

The young man in the driver's seat had a blank stare on his face. But Mathers had committed Haggerty's photo to memory. It was Haggerty.

"Could I see your license, son?"

Haggerty extracted his license from his wallet and handed it to Mathers but did not look at him. Mathers noticed a magazine strewn on the passenger seat.

"Let's see here, Dennis. Well, I'm sorry to stop you tonight."

"What's going on?"

"Dry conditions. There's a possibility of sporadic brush fires. What're you doing out here this time of night?"

Haggerty finally looked at the officer. Mathers made sure his firearm was ready to draw. "I'm going to see a friend."

"A friend," Mathers said lightly with a laugh. "What friend is out here?"

"A friend. He lives out here. Look I don't see any smoke, so why don't you just get the hell out of my way."

"I need you to get out of the car, son."

"Yeah?" Dennis said, eyeing Mathers with a wicked look. "I don't fuckin' think so."

Dennis threw the magazine on the floor and went to draw a weapon, but Mathers was much quicker on the draw. Although Dennis' hand was on the gun on the passenger seat, Mathers already had his gun in Dennis' face.

"OK, son. Hands out the window."

By this time the two other officers surrounded the car and had their weapons drawn. The female officer stood on the driver's side on the left close to the bumper, and the male officer was situated on the other side of the front passenger window. "Hand off the gun! NOW!" The male officer yelled.

Haggerty took his hand off the gun and placed his hands out the rolled down passenger window. The female officer approached him and stood in Mathers' place, as the detective opened the driver's door and pulled Dennis out.

"You're in a world of trouble, son," Mathers said as the male officer cuffed Dennis' hands behind the teen's back. "We're taking you to the Las Vegas Police Department."

"For what?!"

"Let's just start with attempted assault on an officer and possession of a concealed weapon," Mathers said, following Dennis as he was led to the back of the police car. "I suggest you think about who you want to meet you at the station, boy."

"We'll alert PD we're on the way, detective. They'll want to send another patrol car out here to take over while we get back to PD."

"I'll get a call out to Dr. Grissom too. I'll see you there," Mathers said before opening his cellular. "Dr. Grissom. We got Haggerty. He's on his way to PD."

"Excellent. I'll see you there?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Mathers said as he hung up, plugging a fresh pinch of tobacco into his mouth.

Grissom hung up his phone. Between Haggerty in custody and eight hours of sleep, he felt rejuvenated. He threw away his yogurt cup, finished his peanut butter toast and made a call.

"Catherine? How is the coffee at the office?"

"Lousy as usual."

"How about we check out a cup at PD? Dennis Haggerty will be there."

Catherine couldn't stop her smile. "Meet me here. We'll go together."

--

Dennis Haggerty sat in the interrogation room with his mother, pastor and lawyer. At that moment, his DNA and prints were being compared to pieces of evidence found at several crime scenes, including the cars found at Lambert's compound, the Bible and other items found within the Lambert compound, the outside of the coffins found at the Overton cemetery, the couch, sliding glass window and phone at the Cody residence, and the evidence Grissom had taken from under Lyle Mackenzie's fingernails.

Grissom knew it would take a while, but both he and Catherine were willing to see if Dennis would talk. His arrogance might get the best of him. But they wanted to wait a little longer.

"Thompson admitted to having sex with your last victim," Grissom said to Catherine.

"Her name was Emily Conway. With the help of Angela I was able to get an ID," Catherine said. "How was Thompson?"

"Arrogant, then cautious, then repentant."

"And he actually admitted to it?"

"He thought a confession would get him out of submitting DNA," Grissom said with a slight smile. "But that wasn't the case."

"Ah. And he was putting on a good face for his rich lawyer."

"Yes," Grissom agreed. "I have a theory about Dennis Haggerty's connection with your last victim.

"OK."

"We know Paul Tran killed the first two, but according to our timeline he was killed by Victor and Dennis before your last victim was killed. Paul Tran saw those two girls have a rendezvous with Thompson and maybe part of his and Thompson's agreements was to get rid of the witnesses after they served as mules."

"And you think Dennis Haggerty filled the void Paul Tran left when he was killed? OK, I can see that but why kill Tran in the first place?"

"Well, I think Victor and Dennis had two separate reasons. Didn't your source tell you that Victor made his best money pimping the young girls?"

"Laura said that, right."

"If that's the case wouldn't Victor be upset that someone killed his best merchandise?"

"So Victor kills Tran for killing his women, Dennis took part because…"

"Maybe Thompson somehow found out that Tran was going to Seamus Flemming. Then Thompson needed someone to kill Emily, so he turned to Dennis," Grissom said. "I asked Al about similarities and differences in the killings and he mentioned two of victims were killed by a right-handed person, but Emily Conway was killed by a lefty."

"And look there," Catherine said, slightly motioning to Dennis. "By the looks of how he wears his watch, Dennis seems to be a lefty. That's an interesting theory, Grissom."

"Amazing what a shower, food and eight hours of sleep will do."

"Good for you. Especially the shower part," Catherine said.

Brass and Mathers made their way to the interrogation room. Brass was holding a folder as he greeted his colleagues. "Mathers and I went to the lab to get results from the gun Haggerty had and Greg shot out of nowhere and handed me a report from DNA."

Grissom held the report open as Catherine and he looked at it. "His DNA is a match for DNA for the vomit in the airport taxi where David Heiden was killed, under Lyle Mackenzie's fingernails and a match for the DNA contribution in Emily Conway's throat and nasal passages," Grissom said.

"Let's go in and nail the little son-of-a-bitch," Catherine said.

Mathers, Catherine and Grissom entered the interrogation room. Brass stayed outside in the hallway to observe from there. Dennis' lawyer stood up. "My name is Calvin Milton. I'll be representing Mr. Haggerty. As you probably know, he is still shy of his 18th birthday, so his mother has requested to be present for this interview, along with their spiritual advisor, Rev. Malcolm Banscomb."

Catherine sat down next to Grissom across from Dennis. They both had a couple of file folders. Mathers stood behind them and spoke to Dennis. "Son, your DNA has linked you to the murders of three people."

Dennis said no word and the silence in the room was thick. Mathers took out a notebook and a pen from his jacket pocket. "You're a scholar of the good book, isn't that right?" Mathers began to write something on the paper. "This is one of my favorite Gospel verses."

Mathers pushed the paper toward Dennis who took it and read the text: _"But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father is seeking such people to worship him. God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth."_

"Gospel of John, chapter 4," Mathers said as he pushed the notebook and pen toward Dennis. "What about you? You have a favorite biblical verse?"

Dennis looked at Mathers cautiously with a hint of impatience. He then grabbed the pen with his left hand and wrote something down in the notebook. He ripped the page out of the notebook and pushed it to Mathers, who picked it up and read it aloud.

"Therefore thus says the Lord God: 'Because you have uttered falsehood and seen lying visions, therefore behold, I am against you, declares the Lord God. My hand will be against the prophets who see false visions and who give lying divinations. They shall not be in the council of my people, nor be enrolled in the register of the house of Israel, nor shall they enter the land of Israel. And you shall know that I am the Lord God.'"

"Ezekiel?" Mathers asked, to which Dennis offered a proud nod.

Mathers handed the page to Grissom, who took it, and extracted a different page enclosed in an evidence bag. He compared Dennis' note to the note taken from the shoe of Seamus Flemming.

"What do you think, Dr. Grissom?" Mathers asked.

"I think this note bears a striking resemblance to notes found on eight murdered men who were buried in coffins made by Fred Lambert. Seven of the victims were shot and one was buried alive," Grissom said.

"Are you a handwriting expert, Mr. Grissom?" asked Calvin Milton.

"No, I'm not. But the handwriting is similar and will be analyzed by an expert," Grissom said. He then turned his attention to Dennis. "You don't care for people who go against 'the truth' do you Dennis?"

For the first time, Dennis spoke. His deliberate and measured tone displayed a hint of disdain for Grissom. "That's right."

"Tell us how you know Fred Lambert?" Grissom asked

"I don't."

"He knows you."

"No. He doesn't know me," Dennis said.

"Well, that's strange," Mathers said. "Fred Lambert was the one who told Dr. Grissom and the police that you were such a biblical scholar. And weren't you on the way to see Fred when I stopped you tonight?"

Dennis thought for a second, weighing what was said and not said when he was stopped. "I went for Bible study."

"You always bring a gun for Bible study?"

"It's secluded out there. Never know what you'll run into."

Mathers sat down in the seat on the other side of Catherine. "I should rephrase that question; do you always bring a gun belonging to the deceased prison guard, Paul Tran, to a Bible study."

Dennis said nothing, so Grissom continued. "Fred Lambert talked about a lot of things. Including your role in the beating and killing of eight people. Then you helped transport the bodies to a location where they were to be buried never to be found. He also told us how you and Victor Chapute beat and sealed a journalist — Seamus Flemming — in a coffin and let the man suffocate in the desert heat."

Grissom took out photos of the victims, including Flemming, and placed them on the table for Dennis and company to see.

"Is this really necessary, Mr. Grissom?" Haggerty's attorney asked.

"We have evidence and testimony that your client was involved in the murders of these men."

Dennis fidgeted for the first time since he had entered the room. But his nerves didn't demonstrate fear. His fists clenched. He was holding in his anger. Mathers, Catherine and Grissom were not the only ones who noticed Dennis' changed demeanor. "Excuse me officers," Rev. Banscomb said as he came behind Dennis and placed his hands on the boy's shoulders, "I think it would be best if we had a talk with Dennis alone."

Dennis roughly brushed off Banscomb's hands. "I don't need to talk to you all."

"Dennis, you need to listen to what is happening here," said Catherine. "We know you drove the car used in the kidnapping of Davis Heiden. And your vomit was on the driver's side floorboards. I saw the carnage left in that car, Dennis. It must have been hell watching your partner slice and kill Heiden. But apparently you started to like it."

Dennis' face simply showed resentment. This time, Grissom picked up the conversation.

"Your DNA was found under the fingernails of Lyle Mackenzie."

"I don't know a Lyle Mackenzie." Dennis no longer sheltered his malice.

"Really?" Mathers said. "You know, you say you don't know someone, and then we find out you did."

"That's a nice ring, Dennis," Grissom said. "Are you Irish?"

"Oh, you like it?" Dennis asked, a wicked smile playing on his face as he twisted the ring on his finger. "A Claddagh. Always wanted one."

"Where did you get this ring?" Catherine asked.

"His Irish friend gave it to him," said Mrs. Haggerty from the back of the room. The woman looked like her nerves were deteriorating rapidly. "He told me his Irish friend gave it to him."

Catherine looked at Dennis skeptically. "A friend?"

"Yeah, a friend."

"What's his name?"

"You know, I can't remember," Dennis said with a grin. "Something Irish."

Grissom did not grin back. "Lyle Mackenzie was beaten and had his throat slashed. It was amazing he survived enough to talk to us," Grissom said, seeing a slight twitch in Dennis' face. He then took out a photo of Mackenzie that showed his ragged face and gauze covering his sliced throat. "He had the most distinctive marks on his cheek where he was beaten. It looked a lot like the design on that ring. And Seamus Flemming was wearing one when he died."

"Lots of people have those rings, Mr. Grissom," Dennis' attorney said. "I hope you don't think you could put the beating of someone my client says he didn't know on the notion he owes a ring millions of people across the world own."

"Yes, but only one Claddagh ring in this world would have Lyle McKenzie's DNA on it or that of Seamus Flemming."

Dennis took off the ring. "Here. Go ahead and take it."

Dennis' attorney protested. "Dennis. Don't do that. You don't have to give it to him."

"They're bullshitting. They've got nothing on me," Haggerty said. "Let's see what this asshole can get. I just hope I get it back all polished and shiny."

Catherine put on a pair of latex gloves and placed the ring in an evidence envelope. "Dennis, you really should listen to your attorney. We are checking your prints with those left at the crime scenes. And how do you explain the presence of your DNA?"

Dennis picked up a couple of the photos and looked at them with amusement. "Who were these people, huh? Did they really contribute anything to our society?"

"Why do you say that, Dennis?" Grissom asked, starting a volley with the young man.

"Come on. Just tell me who they were, what they did. Were they doctors or teachers or dedicated ministers?"

"There were all men who seemed to have upset your mentor, Garrison Thompson."

"My mentor does not get upset," Dennis said, quiet rage in his voice.

"You told me once you would do anything for Thompson."

"I would do anything he asked me."

"Garrison Thompson asked you and Victor Chapute to take care of these men. To kill them."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"That's why your DNA was found at the scene where Davis Heiden was killed. That's why your DNA was found under Lyle Mackenzie's fingernails. That's why we have an eyewitness who saw you participate in murdering these people," Grissom picked up the photo of Seamus Flemming. His own voice displayed a calm, but it was anything but quiet. "And that's why you lined a coffin with rotten raw meat and worms and kidnapped a journalist who was investigating your mentor to expose him for the fraud he is. You beat him, sealed him in a coffin and placed him in the desert heat where he suffocated. But before you sealed that box, you took a trophy — Flemming's Claddagh ring."

Dennis said nothing. But he never took his eyes off of Grissom. Before his attorney could speak up, Catherine took a turn.

"The killing didn't start with any of those men, did it Dennis?"

Dennis barely glanced over to Catherine. He was still in a pissing match with Grissom. "What?"

Catherine took out a photo of Emily Conway. "Your killing started where Paul Tran left off. She was your first, wasn't she?"

At that point, Dennis looked at the photo. "Looks like a whore to me."

"That whore," Catherine said with emphasis, "was a teenager, a few years younger than you are."

Haggerty's face portrayed ever ounce of hatred he held in his emotions. "You know what your problem is? You think of whores like her as human beings, real people."

"They are real people," Grissom said.

"Oh, but they aren't." Haggerty said. "Whores like that one are lower than a dog. She _chose _to sell her own body. Have men defile her for profit. And you know what? That's what she was born to be. It was her destiny."

"And it was your destiny to end her life?" Grissom asked.

Haggerty said nothing. His lawyer put his hand on his client's hand.

"What's the matter, Dennis?" Catherine asked, her voice fuming. "Oh, you'll talk big when it comes to describing these women, but when it comes to take responsibility for what you did to them you become nothing but a scared little boy."

While Haggerty's face expressed rage, he stayed silent. And Catherine — she just got started. She knew he wanted to talk, and she was more than willing to hear the confession. "How about it, Dennis? Are you that scared boy or are you man enough to admit to what you did? Let me ask you something, Dennis. Did you feel like a big man when you did this to her?" She harshly pushed the photo across the table. "Did you, Dennis?"

Still nothing from Dennis, but Catherine could feel that tension. The rubber band was ready to snap.

"Look at the photo, Dennis! Did you finally feel like the big man you always wanted to be? The big man Thompson told you to be?"

"YES!" Dennis screamed. He pounded his fists on the table, and bowed his head. But he simply brought his head up and faced Catherine with a wicked smile.

"You bet I felt like a man. Because I am a man, you worthless, scheming bitch." Dennis' vile tone oozed from his mouth. At that moment, no one else existed in the room except Dennis and Catherine. "And you know what, bitch? It felt good." A wicked laugh escaped Dennis' lips. "I filled her mouth with my seed, with my life, and then I pulled her up, slit her dirty, whore throat and watched the life drain out of her."

Catherine tried hard to be unemotional. She didn't want to give this kid any satisfaction with a response. But Dennis' mother couldn't help but respond.

"DENNIS! OH MY GOD… !" Mrs. Haggerty stopped herself and sobbed. Banscomb held her in an embrace, but she roughly withdrew from his arms. "YOU BASTARD! You were the one who led Dennis to that man! And that man turned my boy into a monster!" Although she pounded at Banscomb's chest, he kept an embrace around the woman trying to comfort her, calm her and lead her out of the room. And through the whole ordeal, Dennis never looked at his mother. Instead, the young man's eyes never left Catherine's.

Brass entered the room. "We're done here," he said, telling Haggerty to stand up and put his hands behind his back. He read the Miranda to the young man and led him out of the room, with his lawyer, Banscomb and Mrs. Haggerty close behind.

Catherine and Grissom sat at the table in silence. It was some time before Catherine picked up the photo of the girl and spoke.

"I forgot she was even in the room," Catherine said, with a bit of remorse, as she rubbed her eyes. "No mother should have heard that. No mother should have witnessed her child admit that he is a serial killer."

"A serial killer without remorse," Grissom added sadly. "It's horrible. A wasted life."

"And the mother was right," Catherine said. "Thompson created a monster."

Grissom sat back and looked wearily at his friend. "I don't know, Catherine. Maybe Thompson just fed the monster and cut him loose."

--

**TBC**


	28. Chapter 27

Disclaimer: CSI. Not mine. Original characters, yes. CSI, no.

**Chapter 27**

The interview with Dennis Haggerty yielded a confession, which closed Catherine's case, but did not to produce a clear-cut connection between Garrison Thompson and any of the killings. Dennis would not roll on his mentor. He was booked. Among his charges was the first-degree murder of Emily Conway.

But there was one thing Dennis Haggerty offered by way of evidence — his cell phone. Grissom dropped it off with Archie for analysis. After the teen was booked and the evidence was logged, Grissom returned to his office at the lab. At this point, he needed to deal with other cases and paperwork.

It was almost four hours later that Brass came to his office.

"Hey. How's it going?"

Grissom showed a tired gesture as he took off his glasses. "You know, I hate to say this, but I actually think doing this mindless work is helping me."

"Well, take a break. I'm hungry. Join me for whatever meal you identify at 3 in the morning."

The thought of food didn't actually agree with Grissom at the moment. Brass seemed to telepathically understand Grissom's dissention.

"Come on. I wanted to talk to you about something."

"You mean something professional?" If it was personal, Grissom really was not hungry.

"Yes, yes," Brass said, knowing his friend too well. "It has to do with the case you've been hammering at for the past, what five, six days?"

"Something like that," Grissom said. "OK. I'll eat."

"Great. Let's go."

"What's in the folder, Jim?" Grissom asked as they walked in the hallways.

"I hope you don't mind, but I dropped by Archie's lab to take a look at what he found on that cell phone." Brass passed the folder to Grissom. "I have an idea how to get Victor to surface."

"OK," Grissom said, his nose still in the folder.

The two made it to the parking lot. Although Grissom didn't seem to notice that they walked to Brass' Dodge Magnum, he still walked to the passenger side. Brass opened his own open door and noticed Grissom stood still on the passenger side, engrossed in the file. Brass continued to stand outside the door, yet Grissom didn't move. Finally Brass went to the passenger side, opened the door there and broke Grissom's concentration. "Let me get that for you, princess."

Grissom scowled at Brass but laughed a bit as he sat down. When Grissom tried to close the door, Brass grabbed it and couldn't resist one more jab as he held Grissom's knee. "Watch it, babe. Wouldn't want to bruise the gams."

Grissom quickly shuffled his legs into the car and slammed the door, causing Brass to let out a full-fledged laugh. He opened the driver side door and was met with another scowl from Grissom.

"Oh, come on. That's the most action you've had in months," Brass said.

Grissom scoffed. "I guess so."

Brass started the ignition and put the car in gear. "Between the last case and this one, you've been going non-stop for more than a week. You gonna take a break soon?"

"You're starting to sound like Ecklie," Grissom said, causing Brass to put a hand to his chest as if he was suffering a mock heart attack. Grissom just smiled. "Ecklie said we needed to discuss some time off because I look like 'death warmed over.'"

"Well, he would know," Brass retorted, giving Grissom a chuckle. "But it's not a bad idea, Gil. Why don't you go and visit Sara?"

"Jim…"

"I know, you've given me the song and dance many times. I get it," Brass said. "But Jeez, Gil, what do you need? To be hit on the head with a two by four? You have the right to go visit her. Besides, you have a great excuse now."

"Here it comes," Grissom said. "OK, I'll take the bait. What's that, Jim?"

"You have some old man coming up and hitting on you," Brass said, as he leaned in toward the passenger seat a bit. "And, … you kind of liked it."

Grissom fought back his laugh by rubbing his forehead and the bridge of his nose. "I'll think about it, OK?"

"Good enough," Brass replied.

"Now, are you going to tell me about your idea on Victor Chapute?"

"Yeah," Brass said as he pulled into the restaurant parking lot. "It involves working with Vice and taking time to get the details mapped out, but I think we might be able to get him."

--

Victor listened to the music playing in the background as he sucked down another bottle of El Gallo. Mexican bar, Puerto Rican music, Guatemalan beer. The irony wasn't lost on Victor, who was more American than anyone in the joint, not that anyone would know that. Born in Texas to an American mother and Latino father, he might have been more true to his heritage if he drank El Presidente, a Dominican beer.

At least he thought so. He had not idea what kind of "Latin" his father professed to be. But who gave a shit? Victor blended with whatever community he could siphon money from. Dominican. Mexican. Guatemalan. Nicaraguan. Venezuelan. It didn't fucking matter to Victor. Or Jorge Pasco. Or Tito Jimenez. Or any of his other aliases. In fact, it didn't matter to Ernesto Alfonso, Victor's real name. The name on his driver's license.

No, the only thing that mattered was making cash, and right now, Victor was running out of fresh meat, thanks to his associations with a fellow con. Garrison Thompson might be in jail, but he was definitely putting a damper on Victor's latest business venture. Pimping the young runaways was a gold mine that Victor had found in Vegas. Much better than forcing migrant farmworker women into prostitution as he and Garrison did in North Carolina. And while he was paid handsomely to get the women to visit Thompson in prison, he was unaware that a prison guard would be killing them after a visit.

Fuckin' bastard. He fuckin' deserved what he got. Then that lousy kid said he killed that last girl. Enough was enough already. No more girls going to the prison.

When Victor and Garrison came from North Carolina to Vegas, Victor immediately put his efforts into selling women. It was Garrison's own fucking fault for getting connected with that local idiot Max Jenkins for their armed robberies. They were bound to get caught, especially because with every new robbery they got more and more high. And that made them sloppy.

Sure, Victor was the one driving the car when Max and Garrison got caught, they didn't rat out Victor and Garrison made sure the "Latino" never forgot that. There were advantages with his dealings with Garrison while he was behind bars. Selling drugs on the inside was another cash cow. Victor didn't mind the killing. Hell, he was able to get a little high and get out his frustrations and anger on someone other than his girls. Roughed up young whores aren't good for business. But the one thing he minded was working with other people. And he minded that things were starting to get messy.

Victor and Garrison were tight in their business dealings — they covered for one another for the sake of the big picture — the money. But Victor could feel that shift. Garrison was getting rid of loose ends. Victor didn't know if he was getting paranoid because of the heroin or if he had a sixth sense, but he wasn't sure if Garrison would get rid of him as a "loose end." _"The son-of-a-bitch better not try,"_ Victor thought. Still, it was time to leave.

Victor was willing to sacrifice the money from the drugs, but he wasn't ready to lose the money from the whores. He could cut his losses and start fresh, but before he could do that, he had one stupid ass loose end — fucking Angela. Where the hell was she?

Once he got rid of her, he would take the bitches he had left and head to Columbus, Ohio, or Kansas City or Orlando. The networks there for fresh meat — teenage girls — were fierce. Too much for the cops to handle. Sure, he would probably bring them to Vegas to work a convention here or there, but otherwise, he would be plenty busy with local johns.

All he needed was to find Angela. She was going with him. No woman would decide on her own to leave Victor. The other girls had to realize that, and he would make an example out of Angela.

Victor felt one of his three phones buzz; it was the black one. "_Speak of the devil, literally," _Victor thought with a smile. _"I thought I was done with that kid. What the hell did that bastard want now?"_

The text was simple and caught Victor's attention: "Item found. Want piece?"

Victor texted back. "Dont touch. W/U?"

"Calls me John."

"_She was fucking pimping herself?" _Victor thought. _"Or with someone else? Bitch."_

"Meet." Victor texted back.

"Baker M. 10?"

Victor finished his beer and texted back "15."

Victor was in his car driving to the motel. About 10 minutes in the drive, he got another text. "Raid. Bck off."

"Dammit," Victor said as he slammed his hand on the steering wheel. He turned his car around and texted again. "Snagged?"

A text came back in no time. "No. Saw it. House?"

"NLV. 20"

"kool"

A week ago, before he knew about Dennis killing one of his own girls, Victor had asked Dennis to help look for Angela. She didn't know Dennis' face, but Victor always took one cell phone photo of his girls for just an occasion. He sent it to Dennis, and it looked like the little fuck had trolled the streets and found her.

Dennis had only been to the North Las Vegas house off I-515 once, but the kid should be able to find it. It was a different location than the house Angela stayed in, but even if Angela got antsy about being in North Las Vegas, Victor was sure Dennis could handle her. He'd seen the kid rip into grown men. A used whore wouldn't be a problem. Course, if he fucks up the merchandise too bad, there'd be hell to pay.

With his concentration muddled — due to the fact that he might get Angela back and he was buzzing after six beers — Victor wasn't taking notice of his surroundings while he drove. He was even surprised when he pulled into front of the North Vegas house. He entered the residence and went directly to the kitchen to grab another beer. After twisting the cap off, he took a swig off the bottle and went to go search for a needle among his passed out bitches. It was time for his fix.

He tied up, but it would have to wait. The front door flew open. "LVPD! EVERYONE GET DOWN!"

Victor frantically looked for an exit, but saw nothing. He was overtaken by two officers before he could think of anything else to do.

"Puta! Quien te parrio!" Victor exclaimed, cursing and speaking in Spanish. "Me voy a matarle toda la gente de aqui!"

"Save it, Victor," said Brass, who entered the home with the other officers. He retrieved a wallet from the suspect's back pants pocket. "Or should I say Ernesto? We know your proficiency in English from your text messages. Isn't that k-o-o-l?"

An officer read Ernesto Alfonso his rights, while members of vice approached the young women in various corners of the room. Most looked scared, strung out and malnourished. They might have worked as prostitutes, but they were victims. And since they were underage and their fear of Victor kept them imprisoned, Ernesto Alfonso, aka Victor Chapute, would be charged with domestic human trafficking.

But before being booked on those charges, Brass and Grissom wanted to sit with him and chat about Garrison Thompson.

That was the deal Brass had made when he plotted his plan some 22 hours prior. He contacted Vice about pursuing the pimp who had prostituted the victims in Catherine's case. Archie's analysis of Dennis Haggerty's cell phone records and text messages yielded a number they believed belonged to Victor Chapute. They decided to try and lure Chapute using the promise that Dennis had Angela. And it worked.

From the text messages, the lab was able to pinpoint grid locations for Chapute. That, combined with the proximity to the Baker Motel and the time he needed to get there, helped nail his location. When Chapute/Alfonso texted about meeting at the North Las Vegas house, an undercover officer noticed a car making a wild U-turn and heading towards the 515; so he followed the car, whose driver seemed oblivious of the tail.

The house the suspect pulled into was known for late night action, so they stormed the place. And now, Ernesto Alfonso sat in an interrogation room of Las Vegas PD. His DNA had been swabbed and his prints taken and both pieces of evidence were being processed. He sat with a public defender.

Brass and Grissom entered the room to talk to him. Once inside, Grissom took a seat and placed several pieces of evidence in front of Alfonso — a photo of a stain on a dead victim's chest, a knife in a translucent evidence bag, a used hypodermic needle, also bagged, and a surveillance photo from the funeral home. Brass then spoke.

"OK, Mr. Alfonso, let's get straight to the point. We have you on the domestic human trafficking and prostitution, that's a given. But if you look here," Brass said, pointing to the array left by Grissom, "we have key pieces of evidence that show your involvement in the murder of several men."

"No hablo ingles," Alfonso replied.

Brass smiled, and turned to the door and asked Officer Elena Sanderson to step inside. "Officer, would you mind translating for this man?"

Alfonso put up his cuffed hands and showed a smile. "OK. OK. That was quick. I will give you that." Alfonso laughed as if he didn't have a care in the world. "Fine, we will speak English."

Brass nodded to Officer Sanderson, who exited the room.

"I'm not finding this funny, Alfonso."

"I am," the suspect flippantly replied. "You don't have anything."

"You chew Skoal, isn't that right?" Grissom asked.

"Yes. Many people do."

"The stain in this photo was found on the body of Davis Heiden, an associate of yours from North Carolina. We identified that stain as Skoal and it had your DNA."

Alfonso was no longer laughing, yet he seemed amused as he listened to Grissom, who simply continued.

"This knife was found at your residence under some floor boards. It had trace amounts of blood on it, right here," Grissom said, holding the knife in the bag, "by the handle. And that is where we also found your prints. The blood belonged to Davis Heiden."

"I don't know a Davis Heiden, señor," Alfonso said. "You must be mistaken about where you found the knife."

"Oh, I'm not mistaken," Grissom said, confidently. "I'm also not mistaken about this needle I found with your DNA and the DNA of another source."

"Mira," Alfonso said. "You probably found a lot of needles at that house with my DNA on it and DNA from those women. I, unfortunately, have a terrible drug problem. I am, how do you say, 'victimized' by the heroin. I use, and the women take my needles and use them again. I watch those shows on TV. I see how DNA is found."

Alfonso seemed satisfied with himself, but Grissom just smiled.

"We didn't find this needle at your residence, and it is not female DNA on it," Grissom said. "This needle was found under the seat of Seamus Flemming's car, which was on Fred Lambert's compound."

Alfonso shifted uneasily. Brass had been standing by the door, and walked to the table to place both hands there. He leaned into Alfonso's space.

"Now, I know you know Fred Lambert. He's scared shitless of you. He told us a lot about how you would bring people to his compound, brutalize them and kill them. Then," Brass said as he picked up the surveillance photo of Alfonso getting out of the recycle truck, "you, Lambert and Dennis Haggerty would transport the dead bodies in coffins Lambert made to Hoffman's Funeral Home in Mesquite."

Alfonso's attorney leaned into his client to speak with him. Unlike Thompson and Haggerty, there was no Milton lawyer for Mr. Alfonso. Yet, his lawyer tried.

"Much of this is circumstantial," he said.

"How do you figure that?" Brass asked. "We have the murder weapon used to slit a man's throat so deep his head almost separated from his body. And the needle connects your client to the death of a journalist who was tracking your client's bad deeds for a story. Your client used that needle on himself, and then shot up the victim, beat the shit out of him, grated off his thumbprints while he was still alive and then sealed him in a coffin where he suffocated to death in the desert heat kicking and screaming!"

Brass hit the table hard. "How's that for circumstantial?"

Again, Alfonso talked quietly to his lawyer.

"You know, we found a lot at Lambert's compound," Grissom said. He was looking down at his hands, but could still register the look on Alfonso's face. "Amongst all the evidence we have on you and Dennis, we found two unused coffins that Lambert made."

Now he had Alfonso's attention. Grissom continued. "He was sure one of the coffins was for him. But Dennis asked him to make two coffins, not just one."

Grissom now looked at Alfonso. "Did you know about the two coffins, Mr. Alfonso?"

"Vete a cadajo!" Alfonso muttered to himself. "Two coffins?" he asked Grissom with malice, not fear.

"Two coffins."

There was a silence, but Brass broke it. "You're going to be facing hard time, but with this stuff, you're facing a whole different needle."

"I understand that. But we are not done talking. You know that, and I know that," Alfonso said

"So, what should we be talking about?" Brass asked.

"Davis Heiden was not just my associate. He was _our_ associate."

"Our who?" Grissom asked.

"Our who?" Alfonso said incredulously. "Please. Do not insult me."

"Don't insult _us_," Brass said. "If you're thinking of a deal you better stop pussyfooting around and tell us what the hell you know."

"You have Dennis?"

"Mr. Haggerty is in custody," Grissom said. "Charged with the murder of Emily Conway and Lyle Mackenzie. We also know he was involved in the killings of Seamus Flemming, Paul Tran, George Cody and four former inmates at Corlin."

"But," Brass said, continuing Grissom's thoughts, "we know you were his partner in crime and most likely pulled the trigger to kill Tran and the inmates. You both killed Flemming and we know you killed Heiden."

"All that," Alfonso said. "All of that was for Thompson."

"Well, that's convenient. Can you prove that?" Brass said.

This time Alfonso talked quietly to his lawyer, for several minutes. The lawyer listened and talked back to his client. He nodded his head and gestured for his client to go ahead and speak.

"I can tell you what you need to know, but his hands were never dirtied. At least not in Vegas," Alfonso said. "He always wanted people to do his dirty work for him. And for that, he wanted to put me in a fuckin' box." Alfonso showed his fury. "Well, I believe it is time for me to show how dirty his hands are."

"What are you talking about?" Brass asked, looking both at the suspect and his lawyer, who replied to the captain.

"My client has information and evidence of two murders performed by Garrison Thompson while they were in North Carolina," the lawyer said. "In exchange for the information, my client would like to discuss a deal…"

Brass cut him off. "Talk to the DA about that, and if you think you're getting anything more than taking the death penalty off the table, you're dreaming." Brass leaned in more to get Alfonso's attention. "Talk."

"Her name was Lydia Ortiz, and her body is in a freezer in the basement belonging to a 90-year-old woman," Alfonso said. "But it is a long story."

Grissom recognized the name immediately. It was the woman Flemming believed had died. The young man's source. The woman on the tape with Victor Chapute and Garrison Thompson. "We have time, Mr. Alfonso. I suggest you start at the beginning."

**TBC**


	29. Conclusion

Chapter 28

Conrad Ecklie was checking his e-mail when he heard a knock at his door. It wasn't surprising to see Grissom standing there, but it did surprise Ecklie that Grissom bothered to knock.

"Good morning, Gil."

"Conrad," Grissom replied as he stood in front of Ecklie's desk and placed a paper in front of him.

Ecklie picked up the paper and looked perplexed. "A request for a two-day leave to North Carolina?" Ecklie read as he looked up at Grissom. "Sidle's in North Carolina?"

It was Grissom's turn to look perplexed. "What? … No," Grissom said. "It deals with the Flemming case."

"Grissom, I thought you closed that case during your shift," Ecklie said. "We have two men in custody. What's going on?"

"One of the suspects in the Flemming case said he hid two bodies murdered by Garrison Thompson six months ago. According to Ernesto Alfonso, instead of burying the bodies, he hid them in a freezer located in the residence of a 90-year-old woman in Raleigh, N.C.," Grissom said. "Alfonso described where the victims were raped and killed and where he hid the bodies. The way he talked, there is a good chance the scene has been untouched."

Grissom knew what would be Ecklie's argument before it left his lips, so he tried to cut him off at the pass. "I understand this might be out of our jurisdiction, but the suspect is in our custody and his involvement in the rape and murder of these women will offer us a connection to him orchestrating the hits on eight people, including Seamus Flemming. One of the victims was a source in Flemming's investigation of Thompson while he was in North Carolina."

Grissom continued and made sure his demeanor was nothing but professional. "I'm not trying to step on any toes, Conrad. I just want to assist with collection. I have information on the case that might help the Raleigh P.D."

"Have you spoken with Raleigh P.D.?"

"Brass and I have talked with Captain Mike Johnson, who is familiar with Seamus Flemming. He was not against my offer to come and help."

Ecklie smirked, knowing Grissom must want this bad since he tried to get all his ducks in a row. "Well, gee, Grissom, I'm surprised you're not pushing to do the autopsy yourself?"

"The bodies will take a few days to thaw. I think we can make significant headway through processing the scene."

"A scene that is six months old?"

"And most likely has never been disturbed."

Ecklie put up his hands. "I suppose Catherine has been notified of your leaving?"

"Yes."

"So, you just made me a formality."

Grissom wanted to retort, but knew he shouldn't. "I believe notifying you is the responsible thing to do."

"I'm not sure how to budget this, Grissom. But I suppose you figure finding a way is the responsible thing for me to do. Right?"

Grissom wanted to reply, but knew he shouldn't.

Conrad didn't show it, but he was impressed Grissom didn't take the bait. Maybe Ecklie was a little disappointed, but he had work to do, so what was the point of prolonging the discussion.

"I'll see you in two days, Grissom."

Grissom nodded and left. He had a late evening flight, so he thought he could spend some time with Hank, take him to the sitter around 3 p.m., get paperwork done at the office and then head to the airport.

Hopefully he'd be able to sleep on the plane.

Nevertheless, Grissom took plenty of paperwork to read.

-----

Capt. Mike Johnson greeted Grissom at the airport. "Long flight Mr. Grissom?"

"Just Grissom is fine. Unfortunately a long layover in Newark," Grissom said, extending his hand to shake the Raleigh detective's. "I appreciate you coming out to get me."

"Newark International. Isn't that listed as a level of hell in the revised version of Dante's Inferno?" Johnson said with a smile.

Grissom smiled back. "I'd have to check on that."

"Tell you what. I'll take you to the motel to freshen up, but we would like to issue the warrant ASAP. …"

"That's not a problem, captain," Grissom said. "I only need about 20 minutes. If I could just get a shower and change of clothes, I'd appreciate it."

"Not a problem. And call me Mike."

Feeling better in a fresh set of clothes, Grissom found Johnson in the motel lobby. The officer offered Grissom a fresh to-go cup of coffee and after Grissom doctored his cup, the two left in Johnson's car.

"The address for the warrant is on the outskirts of town," Johnson said. "Owned by a Rosalita Martín, a 90-year-old widow who has lived alone for 10 years."

"Ernesto Alfonso told us he knew one of Martín's great-grandsons, who is in jail. Alfonso acted like her great-grandson and would visit the woman and use her house as a clearinghouse of sorts. He and Thompson would store things there and hold meetings there for illegal transactions," Grissom told the Raleigh captain. "Did you find anything on Thompson on your end? Aliases, anything?"

"Nothing of consequence," Johnson said. "Never arrested. Prints and DNA never came up for pending cases. Couldn't find anyone who knew him."

"What about the ranch where Davis Heiden worked?" Grissom asked.

"After you fellas broke the case on Mr. Heiden, I went to the ranch myself with the surveillance photo and prison photo sent by your Captain Brass. Now, we couldn't get anyone to admit they knew them. But I will say, some of those farm workers tensed when they saw those photos. Especially the surveillance photo of Chapute or Alfonso or whatever the hell you want to call him," Johnson said.

"Well, I think we might find something different at the Martín residence," Grissom said. "Thank you, by the way, for allowing me to come out to the scene."

"Like I said, Grissom, you helped us by finding Heiden's body and getting his killer, so accommodating your request wasn't a hard decision," Johnson said, glancing at Grissom as he continued to focus on the road. "You must be determined to bring justice for Jimmy Flemming to come all the way out here."

Grissom paused, but he glanced back at Johnson. "He seemed like a good man."

"He was," Johnson said. "At first I just thought he was some kind of sleazy journalist, but he was different. He really wanted to help those farm workers. He was convinced someone was abusing that community. Not many people would stand up for them. I'm just sorry I couldn't help him more. But after he came back from Iraq, his sources and leads dried up."

"And he headed for Vegas," Grissom continued.

"I saw those crime scene photos. Brutal way for a young man to die," Johnson said. "And I suppose a brutal way to find someone. It's amazing what we see, isn't it Grissom?"

"My fiancé once told me it never ceased to amaze her what people do to each other. … " Grissom didn't even continue his thought. He simply looked out the window.

"I hear that," Johnson said.

Johnson called to find out the ETA of the patrol car, the coroner and his dayshift CSI, Teresa Fabian, who was fluent in Spanish. "They should get there when we do."

True to his prediction, the patrol car, coroner's van and lab issued pick-up pulled into Rosalita Martín's residence at the same time. Johnson and Grissom got out of the car, and Johnson waited for Grissom to retrieve his kit. "You packing, Grissom?"

Grissom patted his familiar silver box. "Just gloves, print powder…"

"Ah," Johnson said, knowingly. "Well, in that case, keep close."

Grissom nodded.

A diminutive, yet alert woman answered the door after Johnson knocked. Teresa Fabian introduced herself and the fellow visitors and explained the reason for the visit. Although she did not fully understand why the police were at her door, Martín politely invited them into her house. Before making their way to the back room where Alfonso said "business" was done, Grissom wanted to show Ms. Martín a few photos.

"Señora," Grissom said, using some of the only Spanish he felt comfortable using. "Do you recognize either of these men?"

Fabian translated the question, to which Ms. Martín answered eagerly with a smile. "She is saying, yes, she does recognize both men. This man," Fabian said, translating for Ms. Martín, and pointing to the booking photo of Ernesto Alfonso, "is her vis-nieto, her great-grandson, Henri. She said the other man was one of Henri's friends, but she did not know his name."

Grissom smiled and nodded to Ms. Martín. "Señora, how many times did your vis-nieto visit you?"

Again, Fabian translated for both Grissom and Martín. "She said Henri visited her about once a week, and his friend came with him to the house maybe five or six times."

Then Ms. Martín asked a question of her own for Fabian to translate. "She's asking where Henri is. She hasn't seen him in several months."

"Tell her he sends his love," Grissom said. "He will be living out west for a long time."

Fabian translated and Ms. Martín seemed thrilled with the answer. Johnson asked Fabian to tell Ms. Martín they would be searching the house and especially the back room as detailed in the warrant. While the patrolmen stayed with Ms. Martín and the coroner stayed in his van, Grissom, Johnson and Fabian went to look for the room in question.

The "room" was actually a shed wired for electricity in the back yard. The chain link fence in front of the shed included a double-sided gate, wide enough to accommodate a compact car. Ms. Martín's husband had served as a butcher in the community before he died 15 years ago. He had kept several large freezers in the shed.

It was the first thing Grissom noticed when they entered the small building. While Johnson and Fabian instinctively drew their weapons, Grissom drew his flashlight and shone it on one of the large freezers. With his hands already gloved, he walked toward the large freezer and tried to open it. It was sealed shut.

The trio looked around and Fabian found a crowbar, which Grissom used to pry the door open. He was successful and inside they found what they were looking for.

But it was anything but a happy occasion for Grissom. "I believe this may be Lydia Ortiz." The body was wrapped in plastic. "Mike, would you mind getting the coroner in here?"

Johnson went outside and returned moments later with Neil Rodeski, coroner for Wake County, N.C.

"Grissom, this is our head coroner, Neil Rodeski," Johnson said.

"Pleasure," Rodeski nodded, knowing an handshake at a crime scene was out of the question. "Let's see what we got. Could you help me, Mr. Grissom?"

Before removing the body, Fabian placed a tarp upon the floor. Grissom and Rodeski then removed the body from the freezer and placed it upon the tarp. Grissom and Fabian observed as Rodeski carefully cut open the plastic covering revealing the frozen corpse of a woman, presumably Lydia Ortiz.

"Well, it's safe to say she is deceased," Rodeski said. "An autopsy can't be done for a few days with her frozen solid."

"True, but we can process and make observations now," Grissom said. "Ms. Fabian, would you mind taking photos?"

"Yes sir."

With that, Grissom joined Johnson who was taking a crow bar to another freezer. "Sealed, like the other one," Johnson said. Once pried open, a second body was discovered. "What did the suspect say about this one?"

"Could be Lydia's mother, Lisette Ortiz. I'll get another tarp."

Rodeski removed the second body with Grissom's assistance and pronounced her as deceased allowing the CSI's to process. For the next few hours, Grissom and Fabian made sure to gather as much as possible from the freezers, plastic coverings and bodies. The women's necks were sliced, much like that of Davis Heiden. Because the plastic coverings were not saturated with blood, Grissom presumed the women had bled out and died before being wrapped in the plastic and placed in the freezer.

Before the coroner took the bodies away, Grissom debated whether to gather evidence from under the fingernails. Since he would still be in town the next day, he opted to collect in the morning, knowing the extremities would thaw faster than the rest of the body. Grissom also took several photos of some blood spots on the corpse presumed to be Lydia Ortiz.

"Dr. Grissom, I did take photos of the body…," Fabian said.

Grissom finished with his close-ups and got ready to cut a sample from the woman's clothing. "Yes. I was getting close-ups of these."

Fabian observed the out-of-towner. "Why are those samples of blood different? The woman's neck was practically severed off. The blood could have been from her."

"That's true, but look at the position and direction of the droplets — rounded as if they fell from above the victim. Even if she was holding her neck after being cut, and droplets fell from her hands, they would not have fallen from a 90 degree angle, as these droplets suggest."

"So you theorize that someone was standing above the victim and bled on top of her. What? From maybe a nose bleed?"

"That's one theory. Her knuckles and face are bruised, suggesting a struggle," Grissom said. "Dr. Rodeski, would you mind turning over the body a bit?"

With Rodeski holding the body on its side, Grissom took he light to shine on the clothing. Once again he saw a group of droplets with a similar splatter pattern. He snapped several photos and took a sample from the clothing on the back.

After the bodies were taken away, Grissom and Fabian continued to examine the room. "If they were killed here, there should be blood somewhere," Fabian speculated.

"Unless someone cleaned up well," Grissom said.

"Some people clean up better than others," Fabian said, offering a smile.

Grissom offered a friendly smile back as they worked. Johnson had since left the scene, and the two CSIs were alone. They diligently sprayed luminol on various surfaces, but found no results. There were several different freezers of various sizes in the room. The two freezers where the women were stored were wiped clean on the outside, but Fabian found partial prints on the inside walls of the freezers. She found Grissom crouched in front of one of the smaller freezers. "You see something?"

"The scuff marks on the floor. It looks like someone pulled it from the wall." Fabian took photos, checked for prints on the front and sides of the freezer, and found none. At that point, Grissom pulled freezer from the wall to look at the back of it. He smiled after he flashed his beam on the back. There were three perfect fingerprints in blood.

"Well," Fabian said, "I told you some people clean up better than others."

Grissom stood up and stretched his legs as Fabian extracted the prints and took photos. He was lost in his own thoughts. The information Alfonso had given him and Brass seemed to be working out.

Yet Grissom held some apprehension when he considered the evidence he and Fabian collected. What if the DNA and prints came up all to Alfonso or to another unknown? What if Alfonso lied about the whole thing making Grissom the fool?

"Dr. Grissom? You ready to look inside?" Fabian asked.

Grissom peered into the freezer as Fabian opened it. He saw bags of various meats, each riddled with freezer burn. Then there was a large box of Angus burgers. Grissom retrieved it.

"You hungry?" Fabian asked with a laugh. He opened the box and the female CSI's frivolity ceased. She retrieved several evidence bags and her camera. "That's definitely not a steak knife."

Grissom held the weapon in question and surveyed its handle and blade. A test revealed there was human blood on the knife. After cataloguing that piece of evidence, Grissom moved to the other items in the box — blood-stained clothing. The doubts he had moments earlier seemed to subside a bit and he held up the pants.

"I don't know if my waist was that slim before I had my kids," Fabian said. "Whoever wore those pants was skinny."

Grissom knew better than to make any comment to that, which was fine. All his thoughts were on the fact that Alfonso's build was much like his own while Thompson was thin as a rail.

He could hardly wait to see the results of the DNA and prints now.

--

Grissom was satisfied with his findings from his trip to North Carolina. After being away from two days, he returned to the lab with photos and reports from evidence collection. It didn't surprise him that the first person who wanted a report wasn't Ecklie, but Catherine.

"Gil, what the hell? You didn't stay for the autopsy?" Catherine asked and not so politely.

"It's good to see you too, Catherine."

Catherine let out a sigh as she rolled her eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry," she offered sarcastically. "Let me start over. How was your trip? Did you see any sights? Did you meet anyone nice? Did you get laid?"

Grissom looked annoyed after that last question, but before receiving verbal protest, Catherine answered the questions in a much deeper voice. "Well, Catherine. Fine. No. No. And, most definitely, no."

With that Catherine held up her arms. "So. The autopsy?"

"The bodies were frozen, Catherine. They have to thaw, you know that," Grissom said. "I thought it was best to get back here with the evidence I was able to garner and let them deal with the autopsy and send us the reports. By the time this shift is over, they will be working on the autopsy in North Carolina."

Catherine let out another sigh and acquiesced.

"Besides, you are incorrect on your assumption from one of your questions," Grissom said with a gleam in his eye. He even winked and nudged Catherine's arm.

That just aroused a curiosity that got the best of Catherine. The scuttlebutt around the office was that Sara was in North Carolina. "Really?"

"Yes," Grissom said as he paused and winked again. "I visited the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences."

The comment spurred another eye roll as Catherine walked away and said, "Let's look at what you've got in the layout room."

Grissom smiled as his hands were in his pockets and his files were tight against his sides. His bowlegged stride worked in overtime to catch up with his friend. "Did you know the building was designed by Durham architect Robert W. Carr, and the gallery includes a reconstructed 40-foot long Acrocanthosaurus dinosaur skeleton, along with whale skeletons, North Carolina wildlife dioramas and gemstone collections?"

"That's great, Gil."

"What? You asked," Grissom said.

-------------

Grissom relaxed at his home after finishing a shift concentrating on other cases and paperwork. He was absentmindedly stroking Hank's head and reading a journal when his cellular rang. He was anxious to take the call.

"Grissom."

He listened intently on the line and wrote notes. "When can we get a copy of the report?" Grissom asked. "That would be great. … When do you plan to work on extradition? Excellent. … We would like to see him first thing in the morning. Does that work for you? … Great. Yes, captain, thank you very much. … You too."

Grissom rubbed his tired face but gave his dog a smile. "Come on boy. Let's go get some ice cream. I feel like celebrating."

Hank perked up and went to the door, waiting for his master. Grissom got the leash on the dog and punched a few numbers on his cell.

"Catherine? It's Grissom. How are you? … Good. I got a call from Johnson in Raleigh. I'd like to secure a meeting with Garrison Thompson tomorrow morning after shift. … Yes, well, I think they found enough from autopsy."

--

Grissom and Catherine drove together to Corlin Correctional. They hoped Brass would be with them, but he got caught up with something at PD and promised to only be five or 10 minutes behind them. The duo went through prison security. While they were allowed to keep their cellulars, because they were not prison personnel or police officers, they were not allowed to walk in with their firearms. Catherine alerted the clerk they would be expecting Captain Jim Brass to join them for the interview.

They made their way to the west wing of the facility to get to Interrogation Room 7 with an escort, when they heard commotion behind them. The guard quickly got them into the room, where Thompson, his lawyer and a guard were already waiting. The guard exited the room with the CSIs' escort. He returned a short time later and explained what was going on.

"We're going to be in here for a while, folks," Officer Beck said. "They had a problem with a few prisoners and are securing the hallways, so we're going to be stuck here for the duration of the lock-down."

Only Alex Milton, Thompson's lawyer, voiced a note of dissent. "Will we be safe in here?"

"Yes sir," Beck assured. "I'm not going anywhere."

Milton seemed uneasy, but still kept a professional reserve. "Very well. Mr. Grissom. Ms. Willows. You requested this interview. We would like to know what is going on."

"The authorities in Raleigh, N.C., are working on extradition papers for your client for the rape and murders of Lydia Ortiz and Lisette Ortiz," Catherine stated matter-of-factly.

Silence enveloped the room, even as noise from the commotion outside in the hallway tried to seep inside the walls. Although Thompson strived to look nonplussed, both Catherine and Grissom noticed a sliver of surprise and anger in his resolve. Milton, on the other hand, did not hide the incredulous look on his face.

"What are you talking about? This is ridiculous! Now you are looking outside the state to try and nail my client with stunning and outrageous charges?!"

"They aren't outrageous charges, Mr. Milton," Grissom said. "On the contrary, we have concrete evidence to support our claims." He turned his attention to the prisoner. "Mr. Thompson, you remember Ms. Ortiz and her mother, right? Lydia Ortiz was Seamus Flemming's source for the story he was working on in Raleigh."

With that Grissom took out a tape player holding audio evidence of Lydia Ortiz's meeting with Thompson. As the player spewed the Spanish rhetoric, Grissom made sure the part of the tape that recorded Thompson's laugh resounded in the room before he shut off the tape.

"And what was that supposed to be?" Thompson asked.

"What? You don't recognize your own voice?" Catherine retorted. "Sometimes it is hard to recognize your own speech on tape, but we had this tape analyzed along with a tape of your interview with Flemming, and guess what? Audio matches for your voice."

"I have no idea who you speak of," Thompson said. "I do not know any Lydia Ortiz and, as I told you before, I did not know Mr. Flemming when I was in North Carolina."

"But you knew he worked at the Ledger there," Grissom retorted. "You told us yourself at your first interview."

Thompson shifted. "I don't remember that."

"But we do," Catherine added. "We've met quite a few of your colleagues, Thompson. Lyle Mackenzie. …

"I did not know him."

"Fred Lambert…"

Thompson checked himself, recalling he just mentioned that name to his lawyer. "Fred. Yes. I knew him while he was an inmate. Troubled young man."

"Yes he is," Catherine agreed. "You troubled the hell out of him."

"What are you insinuating?" Thompson said, his tone full of malice.

"Fred Lambert told us about your connections inside and outside these prison walls," Catherine continued. "Paul Tran was a guard here who did your bidding. But what happened, Thompson? Why did he offer information to Flemming?"

Milton cut in. "If you think I'm going to sit here and watch you accuse my client with nothing but your own speculation fueled by ridiculous rhetoric from an embittered convict hell bent on getting revenge on a man who tried to counsel him. …"

"We also had an inspiring chat with your protégée, Dennis Haggerty." Now it was time for Catherine to intone her speech with malice. "He did anything you asked of him, didn't he? He lied for you, covered for you, kidnapped for you and murdered for you."

"Dennis was a wounded soul whose path became tragically entwined with the wrong men," Thompson said.

"Yeah, the path that led to you."

"OK, that is quite enough, Ms. Willows," Milton exclaimed. "Where is your evidence? What do you have to substantiate your claims?"

Two words. He only needed two words.

"Alfonso talked."

At that, Thompson lifted his eyes to Grissom's. "Excuse me, sir. I don't believe I know that name."

"That's Victor's real name. But I'm sure you knew that," Grissom said. "In case you don't. I'll reiterate our findings: Chapute talked."

Thompson chest betrayed his calmed face as it lifted and dropped. "Again, Mr. Grissom. I don't believe I know that name."

"We know you are connected to the murders of several people, including Davis Heiden, Max Jenkins, Emily Conway, Paul Tran and Seamus Flemming, to name a few. But like Ernesto Alfonso, a.k.a. Victor Chapute said, you don't like to get your hands dirty," Grissom said, before he gathered photos of the crime scene in Raleigh. "But you got them dirty in Raleigh, didn't you, Mr. Thompson."

The autopsy photos showed the slit throats and bruised bodies of two women. Crime scene photos revealed close-ups and full-frame photos of blood-stained clothing and one photo focused on a bloody and large hunting knife.

"This was your doing, Mr. Thompson," Grissom said confidently. "DNA on their clothing shows you bled on Lydia Ortiz as you beat, raped and killed her. She fought you. We found your DNA under her fingernails. Did she give you a nosebleed when it happened? Because we found blood droplets on her clothing, both on the front and the back that has your DNA markers. We found your bloody fingerprints on the scene as well, both on a freezer where your clothes were stashed and, more importantly, on the hunting knife that an autopsy confirms you used to slit these women's throats."

"Wait a minute," Milton said. "My client hasn't been in North Carolina for five months. If prints were found on the scene from my client, it would have surfaced before now."

"The scene was just discovered three days ago," Grissom said. "I processed it myself."

"Oh, so we're supposed to believe this evidence which is what, six, seven months old will hold up?" Milton said.

"The evidence is fresh, thanks to its preservation in freezers," Grissom said, turning his full attention to Thompson. "You wanted to get rid of all your loose ends, start a new life. You probably saw a good career in your future, isn't that right Mr. Thompson? And then Seamus Flemming comes out of nowhere and tries to dredge up all the skeletons — skeletons you thought were hidden.

"The problem was," Grissom continued, "when you asked Victor to take care of the bodies of the two women you killed, he didn't do it. It became his insurance policy. He found out about Lambert's instructions to make two coffins and assumed you were going to get rid of him."

Grissom leaned back. "So he did what many criminals do. He told us your dirty little secret and told us where the evidence and bodies were buried. And now you're looking at two counts of murder and extradition to your home state."

Hatred filled Thompson's eyes, but Grissom wouldn't back down.

"You might have your followers, Mr. Thompson. But I guess every Christ figure has his Judas."

Grissom expected silence and he received that. He could hear a pin drop.

That was until a renouncing "thud" filled the room and Grissom's face flew hard toward the table, causing his glasses to shatter.

Officer Beck was behind Grissom and he continued to pound his nightstick across Grissom's back and on his head. For a moment, Catherine stood shocked, but she soon went for her firearm.

It wasn't there. She had to leave it up front.

She quickly glanced around the room for something, anything to help her friend. She found the lawyer's briefcase and swung it at Beck's head, hitting him soundly.

The moment gave Grissom respite as he struggled to bring his body in a sitting position. But before Catherine could swing the case again, Beck took his taser and struck Catherine in the shoulder, causing her to scream, stumble and fall. Although he had been cowering in a corner, Alex Milton went to Catherine's aid, and quickly removed the dart-like electrodes before the guard could shock her again.

With a surge of adrenaline, Grissom pushed his body into Beck's. But Beck struck Grissom, grabbed his club again, placed it roughly at Grissom's throat and yanked Grissom to stand up.

Gaining a slight grip on the nightstick, Grissom desperately tried to push it off of his windpipe. But when he pushed enough to relieve the pressure off his neck, Beck used his own body to slam Grissom into the wall. Beck once again pulled on the club, creating a crush that left Grissom struggling to breathe.

Turning Grissom's face toward Thompson, the prisoner's wild eyes pierced Grissom's dazed gaze. Beck's reaction to Grissom's interrogation was spontaneous, and Thompson gleefully enjoyed the show. Here was a man with nothing to lose watching his puppet play a game of cat and mouse with someone he despised. In a hushed tone for Grissom to hear, Thompson leaned in and said, "Say what you will about me, sir. But I believe the number of my followers will trump my one Judas."

He never touched Grissom. His hands were not going to be dirtied as long as Beck was the one holding Grissom.

Thompson's voice then boomed, in full preaching mode. "The obedient spirits of the faithful will always triumph over the lies and trappings of a soulless wanderer who serves to only demean and destroy the true mission of God."

Catherine struggled to sit up after her ordeal. She remembered the skirmish that occurred in the hallway and realized the commotion in this room might go unnoticed. She hoped Brass had made it to the prison by now and was awaiting entry, so she retrieved her cellular from on top of the table and, despite still feeling woozy, quickly sent a text to Brass. "CC I-ROOM 7 W NEED HELP NOW"

Thompson closed the gap between himself, Grissom and Beck. Thompson's movement caused Beck to pull harder on Grissom, making the CSI stand up straighter. Thompson laughed at Grissom, whose nose and bottom lip already began to swell from the impact with the table and wall. One of Grissom's eyes was swollen shut. "Brother Philip is a faithful follower, Mr. Grissom. He has faith in me. Don't you now, my brother?"

Beck never said a word, but Grissom struggled to speak in rasps. "He's an imposter, officer. … Don't let him fool you."

The comment only made Beck pull again. Although furious at Grissom's words, Thompson only laughed. "You speak ill, Mr. Grissom. I'm the chosen one."

"You're … a charlatan … and … a murderer."

Catherine's strength slowly recovered and she watched Beck. She saw the different emotions registering on his face — anger, fear and confusion. But he was a big and strong man who was practically pulling Grissom off his feet with the force of the pressure on Grissom's neck.

"Listen to me Beck," Catherine said in a steady controlled voice. "You saw those photos. He sliced those women's throats. And before that he raped them. You can't ignore that. Please, Beck. Stop."

Catherine stood and Beck brought his right arm to his side and put all the pressure he could from his left arm across the nightstick lodged across Grissom's neck. Beck retrieved his side arm with his right hand, pointed it at Catherine, and then held it to Grissom's right temple. Catherine stopped. Grissom was unable to move in Beck's grip.

Thompson ate the control like a feast. "Brother Philip it's time. Do you have the faith? Do you believe?"

Beck said nothing and didn't move. But Grissom could feel the man's hold drifting slightly. "Don't let him make you do this," Grissom managed to gasp. If he could just turn himself around…

"BROTHER PHILIP!" Thompson yelled, startling the officer. Again the grip tightened. "Do you have the faith? Do you believe? Because now is the time to vanquish the foe. The spirit raging in this man is evil and causing him to spew hateful lies. Look around! There is no one coming to his rescue, not from your brother guards. That is because we are now in a sacred place in which the time has come. The time for thinking is over. You must act. You must have faith in me."

_The grip,_ Grissom thought. _It's too much_. He wanted to let go and just fall. He was tired. He wanted this over.

But he couldn't. He had to gain some more strength. His mind filled with thoughts and images. Evidence … Sara … photos … Sara … interviews…

"Beck. … Please. … Thompson's … wrong," Grissom struggled to say. "Beck, only … only faith matters. … Faith in God."

With that Beck took his arm off Grissom's neck and slammed the CSI down on the table. Using his left hand, the officer pushed the nightstick against the back of Grissom's neck in a paralyzing vise. Grissom could vaguely hear voices outside the door.

Then he couldn't hear anything.

-----

The sound of the single shot reverberated in the room. It was followed by the breaking in of a door, shouting and the sound of a gun falling onto the table near Grissom's head.

Officers grabbed Beck, whose hands were raised and put behind the back of his head in a gesture of surrender. A guard swiftly entered the room and went to check for a pulse on the shooting victim, knowing full well the shot to the head was fatal.

"Nothing." That's all the guard said.

Grissom didn't need to hear that to understand. He tried to stand and saw Thompson's body on the floor. The prisoner's facial features registered a final look of pain and shock.

Thompson didn't see it coming.

After shoving Grissom to the table, Beck quickly raised his weapon to Thompson's head, successfully wiping the wicked smile off his face.

The trigger was pulled before anyone, including Thompson, could react. The shot hit the inmate in the forehead and blasted through the back of his skull. Blood splattered on Beck's face and chest because of the proximity of the shot.

Catherine made her way to Grissom and helped steady him where he stood. He touched his neck and throat, only to pull his hand away since the area was too tender to the touch. He tore his stare away from Thompson's body when he realized Catherine was at his side.

"Catherine, are you OK?" Grissom asked, his voice hoarse.

"I'm fine," she said.

"You … He stunned you. … Are you sure?"

"It's OK, Gil," Catherine said in a soothing voice. "Come on. Brass is here."

At that, Brass came to help Catherine get Grissom up. "We need to get you two to the hospital."

Grissom nodded and let his friends guide him out of the room. When they exited Brass and Catherine exchanged words, but they did not register with Grissom, even as Brass helped him into a chair in the hallway.

Grissom's head felt heavy and his body was weary. Once again images and thoughts filled his head. He tried to think of one person, but instead a single prayer filled his mind.

_Please don't let Thompson become a martyr._

--

Epilogue to follow

--

A/N: That's right. I got rid of the glasses. Hee hee. BTW, how many times can you thank your betas? Not enough. To the two talented women who supported and edited this story, my hats and gratitude go out to you. God bless you both.

And to you the reader, thank you for reading. Reviews are manna from heaven.


	30. Epilogue

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI.

A/N: Hope you enjoy this. For those not into the ship, please note GSR ahead.

**Epilogue**

Grissom listened to his friend talk to him on the phone. While Brass had sounded very concerned about Grissom at the beginning of the phone call, the conversation's tone now was light, as if the two-ton elephant had left the room. Brass was laughing as he gently teased Grissom.

"You should be in a goddamn neck brace. You're one lucky son-of-a-bitch," Brass said. "You know, I think I'll talk to your doctor and insist on one."

"Jim, if I needed one, I would have been given one," Grissom said, only feeding Brass' sarcasm. His voice was still raw and hoarse from his ordeal some 24 hours ago.

"Doesn't hurt to ask. And with all the cuts and bruises on your face, you really should have one of those cones, like they give to dogs."

"You think I'm going to be licking my wounds?"

"I'm just saying it's something to think about."

"Do you say that out of concern or out of the realm of possibility that you could get a photo?"

"I do need a Christmas card photo."

"You're always thinking of my well-being, aren't you?" Grissom said sarcastically, and with a smile.

"Anything for a friend," Brass replied. "But seriously Gil, you're OK, right? You sound tired and hoarse."

"I'll be fine," Grissom said. "Will you pass along a message to Catherine that there is no need to check on me?"

"You bet," Brass said. "Watch out for your neck and take care of yourself, buddy."

"I will. Thanks, Jim." With that, Grissom closed his cell phone, only to open it again to make another call. Sara picked up without a greeting.

"I've been trying to get in touch with you!" said Sara, with worry evident in her voice. Grissom could almost hear her pacing the room. "Where have you been? I've been trying to call you for the past two hours. Are you OK?"

"Honey, it's OK. I'm fine …"

"Don't give me that! I called your phone last night and Catherine answered …"

"_Oh boy," _Grissom thought.

"… She told me a guard was beating you!" Sara sounded frantic.

"Sara, please don't worry. Please, honey, calm down."

"If you wanted me calm you shouldn't let Catherine answer your phone and you should have answered it for the last two hours when I was calling."

"I'm sorry," Grissom said. "I had my phone turned off."

Sara let out a breath, and she did make an effort and try to calm down as she continued. "At least tell me they gave you time off and you're going to actually take it."

"Yes. Ecklie gave me a week, and said I could have more if I need more. Really, honey, there's nothing to worry about. I had scans and x-rays done at the hospital. It seems everything's OK, just bruises here and there and a nice lump on my head. Apparently I have a really hard head," Grissom said, glad he heard Sara let out a nervous snicker to the comment. His face still looked swollen and bruised, not to mention his neck and shoulders, but there was no sense mentioning that now. "It looks worse than it is, and I'm sure it will look better in a couple of days. You'll see."

Sara calmed a bit, but didn't say anything, leaving Grissom to ask a question. "Where are you? Back in San Francisco?"

"Yes. I came back yesterday," Sara said, her voice reflected some guilt. "You're wondering why I'm not in Vegas, aren't you?"

"No, no, honey…"

"I should have just left last night. What was I thinking?" Sara said as she berated herself.

Grissom could almost hear her pacing again. "Sara, come on. Please, stop. I didn't know you called last night. Catherine took my phone when I was at the hospital and then she took it with her to the office. When I left the hospital I asked Jim to drop me off at the lab to try and retrieve it. I didn't even get to see Catherine; I just took it from her office. I should have called you, but I got busy with other calls, and…"

"I should have come to you, Gil."

"Sara…"

"No, this is stupid. I'm 30 minutes from the airport. I'll get online and book something now. I'll get out to Vegas right away."

"No, Sara. There's no need to do that."

"I'm right here in front of the computer, Gil. Let me hang up. I should have done this a couple of hours ago. Hell, I should have booked something last night, but I didn't know where you were, if you were going to be overnight in the hospital or if you were going to stay with Jim or Cath. Or Heather. …"

"Heather? Sara, take a deep breath, honey. You're not making sense …"

At that moment, Sara went from full-fledge panic to no-nonsense resolve. "Gil. You need me. I should come out there…"

"Sara, please. Stop!" Grissom didn't want to sound mad, because he wasn't. He calmed his tone quickly. "Please don't hang up, honey. Sara, I do need you. More than you know. But you don't have to come to Vegas."

"Why don't you want me back in Vegas? It's worse than you're saying, isn't it?"

"It's not that," Grissom said, as he stopped in front of a baggage carousel and picked up his suitcase, wincing a bit as he stooped over. "I'm at baggage claim at San Francisco International right now. … Do you want to pick me up?"

**END**

A/N: Thank you so much for reading. If you wish to leave a review, I would really, really, really appreciate it. It's been a tough month (in RL). Reviews mean a lot.


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